Intro to Banshees
by lilbluedancer
Summary: Stiles' plan gets them into college. It doesn't cover what happens next.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I own nothing, guys. PLease remember to review ;)**

It's an actual miracle-they all make it to college.

All of them, even Malia, who gets into CCFS, a community college in San Fransisco.

Lydia isn't sure that she believes in miracles but she believes in Stiles, and Stiles' plan works.

They all go to college.

Kira surprises everyone by getting into Berkeley. Scott and Stiles both get into USF and that's it, they don't even look at other schools.

Lydia gets into Stanford, obviously.

She loves Palo Alto. Everything is shiny and bright and fresh. No bad memories and no dead bodies.

It's perfect.

She can be somebody now, someone other than Jackson's girlfriend or that girl who they found in the woods naked or the crazy girl who hears voices.

The friend of the dead girl.

Her dorm roommate is a girl named Krystal. With a _K_.

When Stiles found out she had applied for dorm housing he freaked out.

"But Lydia," he'd whined. "We're supposed to all go together."

"Everyone's cool with Kira's going to Berkeley!"

"You're not Kira!"

"Stiles, I'm not commuting an hour each way every day!"

And that had been the end of that.

Krystal has long blond hair and a fake tan. She's from Houston. How she got into a school like Standford Lydia has no idea, because Krystal parties five nights a week and treats Lydia like a freak for staying in to do homework.

For the first few days Lydia walks around in a rush. She falls in love with all of her professors. She buys new pencils and new pens and rainbow colored post-its.

The whispers started a few days into the semester.

It starts as a hum. Just a quiet noise in her ear. Lydia does her best to tune it out. Music helps so she starts wearing headphones when she walks to and from class. It starts to get louder when she's out. The more people around her, the louder they get. She tells them sternly to be quiet (in her head, _duh_ , she needs a repeat of crazy Beacon Hills Lydia like she needs another stint in Eichen House).

It doesn't even make sense. They never lead her anywhere, never have anything useful to offer. Just a constant distracting buzz in her head.

Lydia goes to class, braves her peers with her sleek MacBook and movie star sunglasses, and dutifully takes notes while her temples pound with faceless voices.

She doesn't make any friends.

She quickly realizes that she doesn't _remember_ how to make a friend. The last friend that she made naturally -that is, not bonded over a supernaturally caused life or death situation-was Alison.

And look how well that turned out.

She doesn't need to make new friends, anyway. She has friends even if they aren't physically present.

She stops going to the dining hall with the girls on her floor. She prefers to stay in her room, eating cereal out of the box while she studies mitochondria.

Stiles calls her the second Friday of the semester, while she's working through a bio lab. "Lydia fucking Martin!" he exclaims. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"I'm at school, Stiles."

"I haven't seen you in two weeks!"

"Two weeks is nothing, calm down."

"Are you having fun Lyds?"

Stiles sounds drunk and happy and she can't bring herself to be honest.

"Of course I'm having fun," she says tartly.

"You have a million boyfriends yet?"

"No," she says faintly, wondering when that became something she felt self-conscious about.

"Playing the field, nice," Stiles comments. "The field's a great place to be."

"You're drunk, Stiles."

"It's a Friday night. I'm in college. I'm supposed to be drunk."

"Do you miss me yet?" she says coyly, desperate to move the conversation away from their social life.

"You know I do," Stiles replies. "Bet you haven't thought of me at _all_."

"Why would you say that?" she snaps.

"... because I've called you seven times in the last two weeks and this is the first time you've picked up."

"Oh," she says shortly. "I've been busy. Studying."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't be mad," she wheedles. "I'm working my ass off."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says, but the warmth is back in his voice. "You going after that Fields Medal?"

"Yeah," she says, pressing her lips together so she doesn't say, _Stiles, I made a mistake, Stiles, I miss you_.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"Of course I'm okay," she responds quickly, smacking her palm against her forehead.

What is _wrong_ with her?

"Hey Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind maybe texting me every few days? Just so I know you're still alive?"

"Sure," she sighs. "I can do that."

"Okay," Stiles says sweetly. "I gotta go."

"Okay."

"Love you," he says casually.

She's so stunned that by the time she says it back he's already hung up.

/

When someone knocks on her door the next morning the last person Lydia expects to see is Scott McCall.

Kyrstal is god knows where and Lydia's been up since six working on her problem sets for calc when someone knocks on her dorm room door. She opens it, assuming it's a girl on her floor looking for Krystal but leaning against the doorframe, casual in a grey tee shirt and jeans, is Scott.

He grins but Lydia just stands there, staring at him.

"What are you doing here?" she asks in shock.

"Can't a friend visit his friend?" Scott asks innocently.

"Stiles talked to you," she says accusingly. "He told you to check up on me."

"Why would he do that?" he asks curiously.

"I don't know," she huffs. "Why else would you be here?"

Scott laughs and shakes his head. "Lydia, are you going to give me a hug or what?"

She dutifully steps into his open arms and realizes with a sharp stab that the last time anyone touched her was two weeks ago, when her mother hugged her goodbye.

Scott is warm and smells like - well, like Scott - cologne and sweat and something earthy. It feels so good she has to press her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from crying when he lets go.

"You okay?" he asks, his hands lingering on her wrists. "You smell weird."

"Excuse me?" she snaps. "It's bad manners to show up unannounced and then start making accusations like _you smell weird_."

"Sorry," Scott mutters. "Not bad weird, just, I don't know. Different I guess."

"Sorry," she apologizes. "I'm just tired, I'm working too hard. I'm happy to see you, honestly, you just surprised me."

"It's okay," he says easily, like she knew he would.

"So," she says, giving him a toothpaste-commercial worthy smile. "Let's show you Palo Alto."

She takes him to the science building, the library, the campus bookstore. Scott asks polite questions and sticks close to her, one hand hovering just about her back or shoulder at all times.

He's being overprotective and she can only think of one reason why that is.

She is going to _kill_ Stiles. She went off the radar for two weeks and that warrants a check-in with her freaking alpha?

Scott is being very good at pretending this is just a friendly visit, but Lydia knows better.

She's in his pack, and Scott came to make sure his pack is still intact.

"Let's get lunch," he says cheerfully. "I'm starving."

They end up at a little cafe on campus. It's filled with other students and Lydia feels self-conscious, even though she doesn't see anyone she knows.

She realizes she hasn't done this - taken a walk with a friend and gone out to eat, something social, _normal_ -since she left Beacon Hills.

As soon as they walk inside she can hear it, the hum inside her head rise like the tide.

"What's wrong?" Scott asks, shaking his napkin out in his lap.

"Nothing," she says defensively. This is so _annoying_. She forgot how impossible it was to hide her true feelings from him.

She's also never felt like she had to hide her feelings from him before.

"Why are you nervous?"

"Goddammit Scott!" she says, exasperated.

"Sorry," he says, laughing. "I'm not doing it on purpose."

"I'm not nervous."

"You smell nervous," he says indifferently.

"It's just weird, okay?"

"It's weird that I'm here?" Scott asks, and if she's not mistaken he looks a little hurt.

"Well, it's not like you and I are buddy-buddy all the time."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, it's not like you and I are really one-on-one friends. I mean, we've spent shitloads of time together, saved each other's asses and everyone else's, but we've never really been _together_ together."

Scott's upper lip twitches. "Except for that one time we made out."

Lydia can't help it. She giggles. "Yeah, except for that."

By the time their waitress shows up she's loosened up and she and Scott are bantering gently with smiles on their faces.

He gets a burger with extra fries and a huge coke and Lydia orders a chef salad.

"That's all you're getting?" Scott asks in disbelief once the waitress leaves.

"Scott, I love you, but I really need you to back off. It's just a salad."

"I'm just saying-"

"What?" she snaps. "Why do you care what I eat?"

Scott has the grace to look a little afraid of her. "I'm just saying...you look a little...thin."

"So?"

He fixes her with a look that makes her want to squirm in her seat. "So I just saw you two weeks ago-"

"Yes, I remember, I was there," she snarks.

"- and you did not look like this two weeks ago -"

"So?"

"So it's not normal for someone to lose a visible amount of weight in two weeks, Lydia," he snaps. "So quit messing around and tell me what the fuck is going on with you."

"Nothing," she whispers, shrinking back in her seat. Scott would never hurt her but she generally tries to give angry werewolves plenty of space. It's just basic safety protocol.

"Lydia," he says gently, "it's okay if you're having a hard time adjusting."

"I'm not," she says passionately. "I _love_ it here. My classes are amazing. Three of my professors used to work for NASA, and there's this internship I'm going to apply for that sounds incredible-"

"Okay, I get it," he says hastily. "Math is cool."

"It's saved your ass plenty of times," she says acidly.

Scot pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lydia, come on. I'm your friend. I care about you. Please, tell me what's going on?"

He's looking at her so earnestly, and she knows she should tell him, that all she has to do is say it and he'll be there for her, Stiles will be there for her, she won't have to be alone anymore.

The voices whisper _hush hush hush_.

"Nothing," she says, with steel in her voice.

She and Scott just sit there and stare at each other, because she lied to him and they both know it.

"Okay," Scott says eventually, his voice steady. "If you say nothing's going on then I guess nothing's going on."

"Alright then," she says calmly.

They eat their lunches quietly and the voices in her head whisper _liar liar liar_.

After lunch Scott walks her back to her dorm. He's not chatty anymore, instead walking in companionable silence. She hates this, how patient he can be, his unwavering faith in people. She would have felt better if he had yelled at her.

Krystal is in the room when they get back to her door.

"Hi," Scott says, holding out a hand to her and flashing a friendly smile. "I'm Scott."

"Krystal," she says faintly, her eyes doing a sweep over Scott's arms and chest.

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Nice to meet you," he says, all polite and charming.

Krystal is practically drooling.

"I should go," Scott says. "I have to meet Kira."

"Okay," Lydia says evenly, pushing down to suddenly overwhelming idea of Scott leaving her.

Scott pulls her into a bear hug, holding her close to his chest. "Your roommate is crazy-jealous of you," he whispers.

Lydia grins. "Good."

He releases her gently and turns to leave but she finds herself reaching for him.

"Scott," she says softly. "Don't tell Stiles, okay?"

"Lydia-"

"Please?" she whispers desperately. "I don't want him to worry about me. He worries too much already."

Scott smiles at her fondly and leans in to kiss her cheek. "We'll always worry about you, Lydia."

When Scott leaves Krystal stands up and crosses her arms over her chest. "Who was _that_?"

"That was Scott," Lydia says casually.

Krystal squeals. "Where have you been hiding him? He's _gorgeous_. God Lydia, no wonder you never go out, why would you need to!"

Scott's not her boyfriend, but Lydia doesn't exactly correct her.

Somehow having a boyfriend has made all her anti-social behavior suddenly acceptable. Krystal magically starts being nice to her and Lydia cries herself to sleep that night in her narrow bed, trying to remember what it felt like when Scott hugged her.

/

She stops going out.

She doesn't feel safe out there. It's too loud, too many voices vying for her attention. She walks to and from her classes with her head down, avoids strangers and classmates alike.

She's safe in her dorm room, with her books and the whispers. So she stays there.

Every few days Lydia texts Stiles that she's still alive and every time he texts back, _good_ , and she rolls her eyes and goes along with her day.

She tries to focus on school. She studies at her desk for hours, she reads and highlights and makes notecards and reads some more. She counts her accolades, buries herself in numbers.

At night she lies awake in bed and listens to the whispers, trying to make the sounds coalesce into words that she can understand.

It hits her looks, eventually. Her skin starts to turns milky white and her eyes develop strange purple shadows under them from lack of sleep.

Lydia buys concealer.

At some point she stops eating. It's not on purpose. She just _forgets_. She makes pots of coffee and studies furiously, and she just forgets. Having whispers constantly distracting her makes it hard to focus on anything beyond finishing her homework.

Krystal thinks that Lydia and Scott are fighting. She sneaks her frozen yogurt from the cafeteria and paints her toenails. Lydia still doesn't like her but it's better than when she was being ignored.

Not that she can really feel ignored when she has Scott and Stiles constantly texting her, making sure she doesn't pull a disappearing act.

When she texts Scott that she's _fine, honest_ , she's just so busy with school and didn't he promise to make sure Stiles wasn't wasting up all his energy worrying about her, he texts her back a single word.

 _Eat_.

Lydia throws her phone at the wall and listens to the voices in her head laugh at her.

She has midterms the fourth week of school. She absolutely crushes Intro to Lit, Women's Studies and Psych 101.

It makes her feel more like herself, the confident Lydia who got straight A's even when she was up all night fighting the supernatural. Calc goes well but she gets a headache halfway through and it doesn't go away, which sucks because she has a Bio midterm the next morning.

She ends up studying all night with an ice pack over her aching forehead and a thermos of coffee. She does not care what kind of freaky banshee thing is happening, she is going to ace that test, because she is Lydia Martin and Lydia Martin doesn't fail.

The morning of the midterm she wakes up extra early. Lydia blow drys her hair into perfect waves. She painstakingly applies concealer, blush, mascara and lipstick. She dresses in tight skinny jeans, a pretty light blue sleeves top, and wedges that give her four inches of confidence.

She stares at herself in the mirror. Sure, she's looking a little frail, but her cheeks have a rosy tint and her hair shines.

"You can do this," she whispers to herself. "You were born to do this."

She gets to the exam room fifteen minutes early and sits in her preferred aisle seat, pencil at the ready. By the time the test papers get passed out she starts to get nauseous and grips her pencil tighter.

One hour. She can get through one hour. She's Lydia fucking Martin. This is what she does.

She rubs the back of her neck and continues with her test.

The room starts to get louder. She can hear the girl behind her snapping her gum, the scratch of her neighbor's pencil on his paper. It starts as a hum that quickly accelerates to a viscous roaring in her head.

Lydia lets out a little gasp of shock and quickly flips through her test.

She's only halfway through it. The voices shriek like a piercing bell in her head.

Eighty percent. She'll finish eighty percent, which gives her a chance of getting a B with a decent curve, and then she'll turn in her test and go back to her dorm.

The pain in her head splits open and it's like kanima venom-she just _crumples_.

Lydia falls sideways out of her desk and the girl behind her with the gum shrieks. She clutches her head and grits her jaw but it's clawing out of her and it _hurts_.

This can't be happening, not here, this isn't happening.

She wants Stiles.

The guy next to her is touching her shoulder and she can hear someone calling nine-one-one.

"Please," she whispers feebly, "Get away."

It crashes over her and she tries so hard to stop is but she can't, it rips her wide open, and she feels it right before she passes out-everything she worked so hard to get out of Beacon Hills for has just been ruined.

Lydia screams.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the great initial response everyone! Hope you enjoy Chapter 2 :)**

Lydia wakes up to white everywhere and she jerks, thinking of swords and snow and blood.

White walls, whites curtains, white blankets, white scrubs.

She's in a fucking hospital.

 _Shit_.

 _Think_ , she tells herself frantically, _think_.

Lydia twists to her left and carefully slides the butterfly iv out of the back of her hand with shaking fingers. She gets out of her bed and her knees buckle, and she goes down hard on one wrist.

Everything tilts and Lydia blinks furiously and pulls herself up. The floor tilts again and she makes a desperate grab for the wall.

Well, she's definitely on some kind of medication. She's high as a goddamn kite.

Lydia pulls herself along the ball into a hallway. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes her wince, the hallway one big blur of cream and mint green.

A phone. She has to find a phone.

She makes in to the nurse's station before she gets caught.

"What're you doing out of bed sweetie?" a steel armed nurse with a sugar sweet voice asks. "Come on, let's go back to your room."

"I need...the phone," she gets out, feebly pushing against the nurse.

"You don't have phone privileges yet," the nurse explains.

"No, please, it's an emergency," she begs.

"Shh." The nurse tugs on her arm and Lydia drags after her, panic cutting through the haze.

"Please," she sobs weakly. "Please, you don't understand."

"It's alright," the nurse says soothingly.

"No," Lydia cries, trying to pull away. "No, please, I have to use the phone, please-"

"Calm down," the nurse says sternly, and calls out for another nurse.

Palo Alto is approximately an hour south of San Francisco. The chance of him hearing her is minimal at best, but it's the only thing she can do.

Lydia falls to her knees and screams for Scott.

She is immediately tackled to the floor, her face pressed into the cheap linoleum.

She sobs when she feels the needle in her shoulder, and then she's asleep.

/

Cotton in her head, cement in her veins, Lydia numbly follows the nurse from her room to the day room, where she's been informed that she has a visitor.

Let it be Stiles, she prays. Let it be Stiles, and if it can't be Stiles then let it be Scott.

Hell, at this point she'd take Derek Hale, if it meant she was getting out of here.

The visitor is her mother.

She must really look like shit, because her mother gasps when she sees her and her eyes fill with tears.

"What're you doing here?" Lydia slurs, falling into a chair. They have her pumped so full of tranquilizers she can't remember how to recite the periodic table.

If she wasn't so numbed out she'd be terrified.

"The school called me," her mother says shakily. "I wasn't allowed to see you until you'd been processed."

 _Processed?_ "Where am I?" she asks, hearing the strange hollowness in her voice.

"You're in the psychiatric ward of Stanford Hospital," her mother says gently.

"Can you sign me out?"

"No, sweetheart. You're on a seventy-two hour hold and then you might have to stay for a little while."

Lydia stares at her. "Why?"

"Lydia, you had some kind of fit in the middle of an exam. You were screaming. Honey, what happened?"

"I need your phone."

"What?"

"Mom, I need your phone. I have to call Stiles."

"Lydia, do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I need your goddamn phone," Lydia grits out.

"I'm not allowed to give you a phone," her mother says.

"Fine," Lydia slowly pulls herself off the chair she's been placed in.

"Lydia, where are you going?"

"Call Stiles, tell him where I am," she instructs.

"Lydia!"

"I don't want to talk to her anymore," she tells the nurse, and she is taken back to her room.

/

She wakes up the middle of the night to a girl sitting on the foot of her bed, pursuing a medical chart.

Lydia stares, heart in her throat. "Allison?"

Allison smiles, the dimple in her cheek popping. "Hey Lydia."

"What are you doing here?" she whispers.

"I can't believe you're even awake," Allison says. "Do you know how many downers they have you on? You must really have raised some hell."

"Alli."

Allison rolls her eyes. "Okay, you caught me. I do like to check up on you from time to time."

Maybe it's the drugs or maybe she's in shock, because all Lydia can do is stare.

"You check up on me?"

"Yeah, you're my best friend." Allison grins. "Look, I can't really do much, because I'm not supernatural, but I like to keep tabs on you. Makes me feel like I'm still a part of things."

"Fear of missing out?" Lydia says weakly.

Allison smiles sadly. "I miss a lot of things."

"Allison," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Allison, I'm so scared."

Allison crawls up the bed and lies down next to Lydia. "Don't be scared," she says calmly. "They're coming for you. They'll always come for you."

"They?"

"Scott and Stiles, _hello_." Allison gives her a goofy smile and Lydia starts to cry.

"I miss you so much," she blubbers and Allison reaches for her hand.

"It's okay, Lydia," she says, suddenly serious. "Everything's going to be fine."

"How can you say that, you're dead!"

Allison wipes Lydia's tears off with her thumbs.

"I'm supposed to be dead," she says quietly.

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth. You need to accept it, okay? I'm dead but you're not. You have to keep fighting, okay?"

Lydia yawns. "I'm so tired of fighting."

Allison squeezes her shoulder. "You'll feel better when you get out of here. All those drugs are messing with your head."

"I'm in love with Stiles," Lydia whispers.

Allison beams. "Took you long enough."

"I think I waited too long," she confesses.

Allison winks. "Have faith, girl. You really need to learn some patience."

"Oh what do you know, you're not even real," Lydia says.

Allison laughs. "I love you so much, you know. Some people don't have anyone to watch. But I have my dad and you and Isaac and-"

"Scott?"

Allison nods slowly. "A few times."

"I'm so sorry-"

"It's not your fault, Lydia. I told you, it's okay. I'm supposed to be where I am." Allison sighs. "I have to go soon. I'm not supposed to stay this long."

"Please," Lydia wheedles. "Just until I fall asleep."

Lydia curls on her side and Allison wraps an arm around her waist.

"Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell Scott...just tell him that I'm proud of him."

"Okay."

"And that I said it was okay."

"What's okay?"

"He'll understand."

"Okay."

"I love you," Allison whispers.

"I love you too."

Lydia falls asleep to Allison stroking her hair.

/

She's sitting on her bed, staring at the wall, when a nurse comes in carrying what suspiciously looks like the clothing she was wearing when she was brought in.

"Change," the nurse says shortly.

Lydia blinks, the pharmaceuticals in her brain making everything muddy and slow. "What?"

"You're being transferred."

Lydia dresses with shaking fingers. She doesn't know if this is good or bad.

Maybe it's Scott and Stiles, like Allison said, here to rescue her.

Maybe her mother is sending her back to Eichen House.

 _No_. Don't think like that. She wouldn't do that.

Would she?

Lydia wobbles in her shoes, woozy from her medication and raw nerves, as the nurse leads her to the office, where a broad shouldered man is having paperwork signed by a doctor.

She doesn't recognize him out of his uniform until he turns around, and she's so surprised she almost falls over.

"Sheriff?"

Sheriff Stilinski gives her a sad smile. "Hey, kid."

"What are you doing here?" she asks faintly.

The doctor finishes signing the papers and hands them to the sheriff.

"Come on," he says, holding his hand out to take her elbow. "Scott and Stiles are waiting in the car."

Sheriff Stilinksi walks her out the hospital and she stumbles in the harsh sunlight. His car is parked at the curb, hazard lights flashing, two boys leaning against it.

Scott is calm, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets, and Stiles is pacing frantically, his face very pale.

When Stiles sees her he launches himself clumsily at her and pulls her tightly into an embrace.

"Thank god," he says hoarsely, one hand cupping the back of her head.

For the first time she's grateful she's so medicated because if she wasn't she'd be bawling right now.

Stiles kisses her temple. "You okay?" he murmurs. "Are you hurt?"

Her tongue like sandpaper in her mouth, her head pounding with exhaustion, she can only blink at him.

"Lydia?" he says uncertainly. "Dad, what's wrong with her?"

"She's fine, Stiles. They put her on a few medications, the doctor mentioned she might be a little out of it."

Stiles' hand clenches in her hair. "They _medicated_ her?"

"Look at her," Scott says tightly, in the kind of voice that sounds so calm she knows it's taking everything in him not to lose control. "She's fucking stoned."

"Oh Lydia," Stiles mourns, cradling her face in his hands. He's a constellation of moles and warm whiskey eyes glittering with tears. "I'm so sorry, Lyds, I'm so sorry."

She wants to say she's sorry too, for scaring him like this, his heartbeat pounding through his shirt and vibrating against her chest. She leans into him instead, lets him pick her up and carry her to the car.

She falls asleep in the backseat with her head on Stiles' lap, his hands rubbing circles over her back.

/

Lydia wakes up with a pounding headache and a full bladder.

"Where are we?" she rasps, dry-mouthed, licking her lips.

Scott twists around in the passenger seat, giving her an evaluating look that makes her stomach drop. "McDonalds."

Lydia goes to the bathroom while the boys go to buy food. She almost gasps when she catches her face in the mirror while washing her hands.

Pale, pale skin, chalk-pink lips. Hair that's greasy and tangled, falling limp across her sunken cheeks.

No wonder her mother cried.

She emerges from the bathroom door and Scott's there, in the little alcove separating the bathrooms from the dining area.

"Hey," he says quietly, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against. "How're you feeling?"

She shrugs weakly, too tired to talk.

Scott frowns and approaches her carefully, checking over his shoulder to make sure no ones looking at them.

"Let me help," he says softly, reaching for her.

"Scott," she whispers.

"It's okay, Lydia."

His hands come up to her head, fingertips spreading over the sides of her head. She doesn't even bother asking how he knows.

Scott always knows.

He groans quietly as black veins slide up his arms, the pain in her head draining.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her head lolling back. "That feels better."

"You're welcome," Scott says gently.

"Scott," she suddenly gasps, reaching for his hand. "Scott, I saw Allison."

He goes pale. "What?"

"She was there, in my room. She told me you and Stiles were coming for me."

Scott's eyes go round. "Whoa," he whispers. "That's crazy."

"She wanted me to tell you something," she says hesitantly.

His hand clenches around hers. "What?"

"She said it was okay."

His brow wrinkles in confusion. "What's okay?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, she just said to tell you that she said it was okay. She said you'd know what she meant."

His eyes suddenly slam shut, his free hand flexing at his side.

"Scott?"

"It's okay," he says, squeezing her hand in reassurance. "I know what you meant."

"Hey guys." Stiles is suddenly there, brandishing a milkshake. "Don't take this personally Lydia, but you look in dire need of two thousand calories."

"Thanks," she says, suddenly feeling shy, holding her hand out to take it from him.

"You're welcome." Earnest brown eyes, that sweet tender mouth, how did she survive a month without him?

"So when are we getting there?" she asks, pulling on the straw to suck a mouthful of strawberry milkshake into her mouth.

Scott and Stiles exchange a look she can't interpret.

"Where do you think we're going?" Scott asks gently.

She blinks suddenly, realizing she has no idea. "I don't know," she whispers, feeling anxiety crawl under her skin.

"We have to tell her," Scott says to Stiles, who sighs raggedly and runs a hand through his hair.

"Look Lyds, just don't freak out, alright? We've got a plan, I promise," Stiles says.

"Why would I freak out?" she asks nervously. "Where are we going?"

Scott scrubs his face with his hands. "Sacramento."

She frowns in confusion. "What's in Sacramento?"

"A hospital," Stiles says tightly, glaring at Scott.

Her anxiety boils over. "What?"

The milkshake slips from her fingers and Scott has to lunge to catch it.

"Just hear us out, okay?" Scott asks.

"A hospital?" she whispers, backing up until she's against the wall. "You're taking me to a hospital?"

"Wasn't my idea," Stiles says bitterly.

"Dude, you are not helping," Scott snaps.

"I told you she wouldn't like it."

"Please," she whimpers. "I can't go back. Don't make me go back."

"Lydia, listen to me," Scott says firmly. "You don't have to stay there."

She stares at him with wide eyes. "I don't?"

"Maybe a night, but that's it."

She turns to Stiles, who's looking at her like she's breaking his heart.

"Why can't I just go back to school?"

"The school sent you to the psych ward, Lyds," he says thickly.

She looks desperately at Scott. "I don't understand what's happening."

Scott sighs. "Your mom called the Sheriff, who called me and Stiles, which is how we knew where you were. We couldn't just break you out-"

"Why not?"

"Because the school would look for you, Lydia! That's the last thing that we need, media attention! We only let you go to Stanford because no one really knows about you-"

"You don't _let_ me do anything-"

"Guys," Stiles says quietly. "Focus."

"Sorry," Scott apologizes. "Look, anyway, we needed a legal way to get you out, one the school would be okay with."

"So how'd you do it?"

"We got lucky," Stiles answers. "My dad knows this judge who owed him a favor. He issued a court order for you to be transferred to a hospital in Sacramento."

"But why Sacramento?" she asks desperately.

Scott gives her a cautious smile. "Because Deaton knows a psychologist who's on staff there. He's going to discharge you once he evaluates you."

"Really?" she whispers faintly. "I really don't have to stay?"

"You might have to stay the night," Scott hedges. "They have to do a whole intake thing that takes forever, so he might not get a chance to evaluate you until tomorrow morning. But then you're out of there."

She looks at Stiles, who gives her a gentle nod in agreement with Scott. "Promise?" she says tremulously.

"Lydia," Stiles says, his voice breaking. "I promise. You know I would never - I would _never_ -"

She throws her arms around him impulsively. "I know," she whispers. "I know."

/ 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I own nothing, please R &R :)**

Lydia manages to hold it together until the Sheriff parks the car in the hospital parking garage.

She can't get out of the car.

She curls up frozen in the middle of the backseat, her back pressed up against Stile's chest.

"I'm sorry," she tells Scott, who's crouched in front of her. "I'm sorry, I can't do it."

"Yes you can," Scott says patiently. "Come on, it's only for a night. One night, and then it's over."

"What if he doesn't let me out?"

"Hey, we checked this guy out," Stiles says soothingly in her ear. "He and Deaton go way back, he's legit."

"I don't want to do this," she pleads with Scott. "Please don't make me do this."

"Lyds," Stiles says softly. "It's not gonna be like Eichen."

"You don't know that," she snaps.

"Lydia," Scott says firmly. "Do you want to go back to school?"

She nods hesitantly. If she doesn't have school, what does she have?

"Then you have to do this. C'mon, it's one night. You can do it."

She arches back to look at Stiles. "Promise I'll see you in the morning?"

Stiles swallows hard. "Promise."

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Alright," Scott says quickly, like he's worried she'll lose her nerve. "Come on, let's do it."

"Okay," she says, and slides out of the car on shaky legs.

They follow the Sheriff into the hospital, Scott and Stiles on either side of her.

Stiles weaves his fingers through hers automatically and she grips her anchor's hand, breathing through the tightness in her chest.

Scott must be able to smell her anxiety, because he holds her other hand gently, and something inside her relaxes.

She's lost so many people, but never them. Her beautiful boys.

If she knows anything, it's that she'll always have Scott and Stiles. That's the thing about being in a pack.

Pack is a forever kind of thing.

Scott squeezes her hand gently when her heartbeat evens out.

"Alright boys, we only go this far." The sheriff stops outside of a locked door, conferring with a nurse.

"Stiles." It comes out low and desperate, and he pulls her to him, his arms banding tightly around.

"Hey," he whispers soothingly. "You got this. One more night, okay? Then it's over. You can do it, Lydia."

Stiles leans down and rests his forehead lightly against hers, and she inhales sharply. She doesn't want to leave him.

She doesn't want him to leave.

Scott comes up from behind and grips her shoulders in reassurance. "We'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Okay," she says, in a squeaky voice she doesn't recognize.

Stiles sighs heavily and brushes his lips against her forehead. "I'm sorry, Lydia," he whispers.

"Don't." She gives him her bravest smile. "I can do it."

Scott smiles proudly and Stiles gives her a fragile-looking smile. "That's my girl."

In her intake interview she is examined and charted, her bag and her street clothes confiscated. Her file from Stanford is reviewed and before Lydia knows it a nurse is pushing a paper cup full of pills at her.

She sighs, focusing on Stile's promise to her, that she only has to endure twelve more hours of this hell.

Lydia tosses the pills back and opens her mouth wide to prove to the nurse she's not hiding them under her tongue or in the pocket of her cheek.

Here we fucking go again.

xxx 

Another morning, another head in the clouds, drugged into nothingness, frozen to the core morning.

The one good thing - no voices, not since she went to the hospital.

Which is not entirely reassuring.

Lydia is taken to the nurses' station for her morning dosage of pills.

She sits at the table in a small cafeteria for breakfast.

She doesn't eat.

She's taken to the day room, where she sits on a sofa staring out the window.

She waits all morning- waits for the man who will give her a one-way ticket out of this place.

At eleven-thirty a nurse retrieves her and walks her down the hall to an office.

"You'll be fine." The nurse pats her on the arm. "Dr. Avian is very good."

Dr. Avian is pleasant looking, mid-thirties, with dark hair and clear blue eyes, but there's something there that reminds her like Ms. Morrell, that whole year of everyone looking at her with secrets in their eyes. Something sharp lurking under that placid smile, like he knows more about her and what she is than she does.

 _A banshee, right before my eyes_.

"Hi Lydia," he says warmly, getting up to shake her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Lydia sways where she stands, struggling to fight through the mental fog to construct a sentence.

"Take a seat," he instructs, and she sinks into a plush chair in front of his desk.

"So," he says cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

She stifles a yawn and rubs her eyes. She's just so-

"Tired?" he supplies helpfully. "My apologies, it's the side effects of the medication you've been prescribed."

The doctor flips through her file, frowning. "I see your doctors at Stanford have you on quite a lot of medication, fairly high doses as well."

She manages an ironic sigh.

"However," he continues. "They were not able to diagnose you with anything concrete within the time that you were there. In my professional opinion it doesn't seem that you had a psychotic break so I don't really believe it was necessary to medicate you to the extent that they did."

"How long?" she croaks.

"Excuse me?"

"How long was I there?"

He gives her a sympathetic smile. "Five days."

 _Five days?_

"Now, I think we can account for what you experienced during your exam as stress, considering you don't appear to have any symptoms of a psychiatric illness."

Her head snaps up. Just like that?

"Unless you disagree with me."

"No," she whispers shakily. "It was just stress."

"Plenty of college freshman struggle with it," he says kindly. He leans forward a little. "Perhaps you should utilize a support system."

"A support system?"

"Everyone struggles sometimes, Lydia. No one should struggle alone."

She makes a noise of understanding and the doctor smiles. "Well then, I suppose we're done here."

She stands up from her chair and suddenly wants to weep in relief, that this wonderful man is unlocking a door she can't open herself.

"Thank you," she says, shaking his hand when he offers it.

"You're welcome," he says quietly. "It really was a pleasure to meet you. You're quite rare, you know."

He opens the door before she thinks of something to say to _that_.

Dr. Avian hands the nurse Lydia's file. "Please take Ms. Martin to the office. She's being discharged."

xxx

Scott and Stiles are both waiting for her when she gets released from the hospital. Stiles gives her a crooked grin and hands over a large cup of coffee. "Thought you might want this."

She actually moans and clutches the cup to her chest. _Caffeine_. Hell yes. This is why she loves Stiles. The guy has his priorities straight.

Scott cups her shoulder, his patented look of concern on his face. "How're you feeling?"

Lydia blinks heavily. "Strange. It's so quiet now. I can't hear them anymore."

He nods, like that's a normal answer. "You mean the voices?"

She manages a shrug, leaning against Stiles for support. Whatever she took earlier that morning makes her feel floaty, like she might dissolve at any moment.

Scott sighs heavily. "Lydia." There's a chastisement in there, but she's too out of it to care.

"Wait, you've been hearing voices?" Stiles says. "At school? And you didn't tell us?"

"I asked her," Scott says, looking over her head at Stiles. "When we had lunch. She lied."

Stile's mouth drops open. "You lied to Scott?"

"Can we wait to have this conversation when I'm not on tranqs and can actually defend myself?" She tries to sound scathing but it comes out sounding pitiful.

"Oh Lydia," Stiles says, so tender she wants to scream.

"I'm not crazy," she whispers.

"Hey," Scott says calmly. "No one thinks you're crazy. Just trying to figure out what happened."

"Everyone's going to think I'm crazy," she says. "Again."

Stiles sighs and slings an arm around her shoulders. "You want to get out of here?"

She loops her arm around his waist and yawns. "Where're we going?"

Scott flips through her discharge papers as they walk through the exit to the parking garage. "How do you feel about spending a few days in San Fransisco? Your mom called the school; they put you on medical leave. You don't have to go back yet."

"And really, I'm kind of insulted that you haven't visited us yet," Stiles adds.

"Okay." She yawns agains and nuzzles into his chest.

"Hey Lyds," he says in surprise. "Nice to see you too."

"I'm tired," she murmurs.

"That's what the coffee's for," Stiles stage whispers. "It has this magical property called caffeine. Perk you right up.""

"It's a side effect," Scott pipes up, tapping her papers. "Says here you're coming down from a lot of stuff. You might be feeling it for a few days."

"Great," she sighs. "Sounds fun."

"Don't worry," Stiles says cheerfully. "We have a lovely futon for you to dry out on."

"Are you running a detox center out of your apartment now?" she jokes weakly.

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've ever done," Scott comments.

xxx 

Scott and Stiles live in a small two-bedroom in the mission district. It's actually kind of cute, she thinks. It's got a living room with a huge couch and a little den off to once side with a futon shoved against the wall. The kitchen has a balcony big enough for two deck chairs and a distant view of the bay.

"So," Stiles says awkwardly, standing in the hallway outside his room. "What do you want to do?"

Lydia runs her fingers through her lank hair. "Shower."

The bathroom is in between the boy's bedrooms. The water pressure is good and she sighs in delight, taking her time. Their shampoo is generic but it smells all right.

She reaches down automatically for conditioner and freezes when she realizes the only bottles in the shower are shampoo and body gel.

"Stiles!" Lydia stomps out of the shower, wet hair sticking to the back of her neck as she wraps a towel around herself.

He's in the living room on the couch with Scott and for the first time she notices how strung out they both look, like they didn't sleep last night.

"Stiles, there's no conditioner!"

"Um...okay?" he responds weakly.

"I need conditioner! My hair doesn't look like this all on its own you know!"

"I don't...I'm a guy, I don't need that stuff. I mean I think I don't, Scotty you don't use conditioner right?"

Scott wrinkles his nose. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a girl and you use curling irons and without conditioner your hair will dry out and look like shit. God Scott, you've had girlfriends since sophomore year, haven't you learned anything?"

She presses her palms into her eyes, hating herself when they burn with tears.

"Hey, Lydia, it's okay." Scott's suddenly next to her, guiding her down to the couch to sit between him and Stiles.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, dropping her head to her knees. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's the meds," Stiles reassures her. "It's normal to feel messed up right now. You'll feel better soon."

"How do you know that?"

"I googled in the car," Stiles admits.

She lets out a watery laugh and rubs at her wet eyes.

Stiles slings an arm around her shoulders. "Do you want me to run out and get you conditioner? I'll buy you the really nice kind you like that smells like strawberries and costs twenty bucks a bottle."

Scott's mouth falls open. " _Twenty bucks_?"

"You can't put a price on beauty," Stiles says primly, and Lydia can't help but giggle.

Stiles loans her a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt that smells inexplicably like home. Scott orders two pizzas and they eat it on the floor of Stile's room, leaning against his bed.

Lydia yawns and elbows Stiles gently. "Put on a movie or something."

"Lydia, please don't make me watch The Notebook," Scott begs. "I love you but just...please. I have limits."

"We could watch Star Wars!" Stiles says enthusiastically.

Scott rolls his eyes. "Like Lydia wants to watch Star Wars."

Lydia watches Stile's face fall and feels an unexpected twinge in her chest.

"I'd watch Star Wars," she says quietly.

Stiles's eyes light up. "Seriously?"

"Sure," she shrugs, and purses her lips. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

Stiles beams and jumps up to hook up his laptop to his flatscreen.

"Sure, Lydia," Scott says, low in her ear. "Whatever you have to tell yourself."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she hisses, watching Stiles poke his tongue out of his mouth in concentration.

Scott just laughs. 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update! Enjoy the new chapter and please remember to review ;)**

She wakes up in Stiles' bed, someone's hand lightly rubbing her shoulder, the distant sound of the shower running.

"Lydia." It's Scott, soft in her ear. "Wake up, your mom's here."

"What?" She blinks sleepily at him. "Are you serious?"

"I can tell her to go away."

"Yeah, because that would make things so much better." She runs her fingers through her hair, gets out of bed and follows Scott down the hall.

Her mother is leaning against the open front door, her sunglasses pushed back into her hair, car keys clutched tightly in her palm.

"Hey, Mom." Lydia hovers in the foyer, embarrassed to be seen by her mother in Stiles Stilinksi's sweatpants.

"Oh honey." Her mother collapses over her, holds her tightly against her chest and kisses the top of her hair.

"I'm fine, Mom." She pats her mom's shoulder until she releases her. "What are you doing here?"

Her mom laughs, like she's being funny. "I'm driving you home, sweetheart."

Her whole body goes cold. "What?"

"Well first we have to stop at school and get your things, of course."

"Mom, what are you talking about?"

Her mother frowns. "You're on medical leave for the rest of the semester. You're coming home with me."

Home? As in Beacon Hills, literal hell-mouth? Hell fucking no she isn't.

"Lydia?" Her mom looks worried. "Are you feeling alright?"

Lydia squares her shoulders and looks her right in the eyes. "No."

Her mother blinks. "No, you're not alright?"

"No, I'm not going home with you."

Her mom makes an impatient noise. "Don't be ridiculous, of course you are."

"I'm not," she says firmly. "I don't want to."

"Lydia," her mom hisses. "I am your mother and you are coming home with me if I have to drag you to the car myself."

"Actually, Ms. Martin." Scott pops up behind her and Lydia startles, she forgot he was there. "Lydia's an adult, so technically even if you are her mother you can't make her go with you."

He gives her mom a cheerful smile and shrugs, like, _daughters, I know, right?_

Her mother looks despondent, finger flying to her throat. "But-but where will you live?"

Lydia doesn't even think about it. "Here. I'll stay with Scott and Stiles."

" _Lydia_!" Her mother looks scandalized.

"I'm an adult now, Mom. It's not your choice where I live."

"But Lydia, you can't just _stay_ here."

She feels Scott's hands descend lightly on her shoulders, his touch reassuring. "Lydia's family, Ms. Martin. She's welcome to stay here as long as she likes."

"Lydia." Her mom looks like she's about to cry. "Please sweetheart."

She puts her arms around her mother, holds her tight. "I'm sorry Mommy," she whispers. "But I can't go with you."

She leans against the open doorway, arms crossed against the cool morning air, and watches her mother get in the car and drive away very slowly, as if she's waiting for Lydia to change her mind.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks gently.

She blinks the tears from her eyes and shuts the door. "Do you guys have coffee?"

"Yeah, there's a bag in the fridge."

She gives him a tight smile. "I just need some coffee."

He nods amicably. "Sure, make a pot. Stiles'll make pancakes or something."

She raises an eyebrow. "He knows how to make pancakes."

Scott grins. "They're really good. You'll see."

"I'm not breaking up the dream team, am I?"

Scott kisses her forehead. "Nah, you're an original member. There's always a place for you here."

/

She finds a bag of Pete's in the fridge and gets a pot of coffee going. She drifts across the kitchen to the sliding glass doors, stares out at the fog rolling over the bay.

It's just starting to sink in. What happened at Stanford, her mother. Only a month in and she's screwed everything up, lost an entire semester. Sees her degree stretch even further out of reach.

It's one of those moments where everything rolls over her in one long wave of loss: her parent's marriage, Jackson, Allison, Aiden.

Stanford.

Her chest tightens and tears blur over the view of the bay.

"Lydia?" She turns and Stiles is standing in the doorway, clean damp hair pushed back from his face. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, feeling a flash of horror when her voice shakes. "I'm fine. I just told my mother I'm taking the semester off, and I have no idea what I'm going to do, but I'm fine, it's fine-"

"Hey," he says softly, crossing the room to her. "Hey, c'mere."

He wraps his arms around her and traitorous tears slip down her cheeks. She presses her face into the collar of his shirt, hands curled around his waist because everything is falling apart, she's screwing up everything-

"Hey," he says sharply. "You are _not_ a screw up."

She lifts her head, allows him to brush off a stray tear clinging to the corner of her eye. "I screamed," she admits tearfully. "I screamed in front of everyone."

"Oh, Lyds," he whispers. "It's okay-"

"It's not okay!" she screeches. "I screamed, and everyone's going to know. I can't go back there Stiles, I can't, I can't-"

"Hey, hey, Lyds, it's okay, it's gonna be okay, just breathe, Lydia."

"I can't!" She tries to inhale but her lungs won't expand. Is this how Stiles feels when he's having a panic attack? Like his brain and his heart are conspiring to kill him?

"Lydia, look at me." His hands are cupping her cheeks. "Take a deep breath."

She sucks in air and chokes, her hands clenching in his shirt. She can't breathe, why can't she breathe? This makes no sense, this has never happened to her before. Stiles is the one who panics, not her.

His lips keep moving but the words blur in a senseless buzz, her throat constricted in a tight knot, fire in her lungs-

Lips press against hers, soft and warm, and she opens her mouth reflexively, the rushing in her ears slowing to a gentle low murmur. Everything slows, narrows down until there's nothing left but him.

There's a warm rush under her skin, something that feels like _safe_ and _right_ and _home_.

He pulls away, looking down at her in awe and maybe a little bit of fear. "Sorry," he whispers. "You wouldn't hold your breath."

Her fingertips touch her bottom lip, swollen from his kiss. "You remembered."

His eyes are shining with something that both scared and thrills her. "I remember everything you tell me."

She makes a face at that. "I hope not."

"Why?"

She looks down, suddenly self-conscious. "It's not like I used to be nice to you."

He lets out a surprised laugh. "I think it's pretty obvious I never cared about that."

"You should," she says softly. "You deserve someone nice."

Something in his expression darkens just a fraction. "Maybe there are things that matter more than that."

Her poor heart stops and speeds right back up. "Like what?"

"Um, guys?" It's Scott, hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand over his eyes. "Is it safe to come in? I'm really hungry."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Impeccable timing as always, Scottie."

Stiles makes pancakes and they really are as good as Scott said, or maybe it's because she got used to living on frozen yogurt at school, hasn't touched a processed carb in weeks. Either way, there's something about it that makes her want to smile - Stiles Stilinski, flipping pancakes like a housewife, syrup smeared slick across his bottom lip.

It should feel awkward, cramming around the little breakfast together with the two boys, like she's an interloper. But it's easy, the familiar stream of their chatter in her ear while they eat, like being back in Beacon Hills.

Except there's no monster to slay anymore; no epic plan to plot, no trauma binding them together except for the familiar ghosts of Allison Argent and Peter Hale.

"I think we should talk about it," Scott says, after he's polished off his third pancake from where he's sitting cross-legged up on the bar.

She leans back in her stool, feigning ignorance. "Talk about what?"

Stiles widens his eyes at her. "Oh you know, we could talk about how you stopped eating when you were at school. Or that you were hearing things, and you stopped talking to everyone. There's plenty to talk about."

She locks her jaw, feeling her cheeks flushed. "Maybe I don't particularly feel like talking about it."

"Lydia, you weren't taking care of yourself," Scott says gently. "We're your friends. We just want to help you."

She crosses her arms defensively across her chest. "It got a little out of control, alright? What do you want me to say? It's not like there's a banshee manual I can consult."

"You weren't like this at home," Stiles points out. "It's sounds like - I mean c'mon Lydia, you have to know what that sounds like. This isn't just a banshee thing."

"I did not have some kind of nervous breakdown if that's what you're implying," she says hotly.

"Hey!" Stiles holds up his hands in defense. "I absolutely was not implying that."

"Lydia, are you sure that's all it was?" Scott inquires. "Banshee stuff?"

"Yes," she says firmly. "So can we please drop it already?"

"Okay," Stiles says, but she doesn't miss the look he shoots Scott over the top of her head.

/

Her mother was right about one thing - all of her belongings are still in her dorm room at Stanford. They drive back over that afternoon in Stiles' jeep, park outside the dorm with the hazard lights on.

Her chest tightens at the familiar cinder block walls, the bright lights and hoards of students milling around, but with Scott and Stiles next to her she feels protected, surrounded by the familiar in a way she didn't even know she missed.

By some stoke of good luck Krystal is out, so they have the room to themselves, Lydia's name in purple glitter cursive still affixed to the front door. She sits cross-legged on her bed and orders the boys around - Stiles takes inventory of everything while Scott does all the heavy loading. It's seamless, the way they work together, and they manage to get all her belongings packed up in an hour, which has to be some kind of record.

Scott starts taking boxes down to the car while she and Stiles do one last scan of the room. She writes a short note to Krystal explaining that she's leaving for good and tacks it to the cork board above her desk.

"You okay?" Stiles slings one arm around her shoulders.

It should be weird - it took her a long time to get used to the fact that she and him were really friends and not just two people trapped in a supernatural hell hole together.

But his arm around her shoulder makes warmth settle in her bones, and she can't believe she tried to do it - live here, alone, without him.

"I will be," she says softly, and leans into him a little.

He sighs, steering her out of the room, watching her face carefully. "I know Stanford was your dream school and everything, and maybe it makes me a totally selfish prick to say this, but I feel a lot better that you're going to be with me and Scott."

She pulls the door to the room shut, locks it, and slides her keys under the door. "Yeah, you two really need to work on your codependency issues."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Admit it. You missed us."

She grins. "I will admit no such thing."

He slaps a hand over his heart, giving her a dramatic, injured look. "Lydia."

"Can it, Stilinski. Come on, Scott's doing everything, we should go help him."

Stiles snorts but follows her to the elevator. "He's got super strength, I think he can handle it."

"Stiles."

"Alright, alright."

They take the elevator back down to the lobby, her heart a pinching thing inside her chest at the realization that this is it, Stanford, her dream, crushed before it even really began, the taste of failure bitter on her tongue.

"Hey." Stiles squeezes her hand. "It's just for a semester. You can come back in January."

She focuses on his hand, the heat of his palm, those long fingers. "Maybe."

"Lyds," he murmurs.

"Don't," she snaps. "I'm fine. It's fine. Let's just go."

"Okay," he sighs, and starts to follow her through the lobby, stumbling and catching himself by her waist when she stops short in front of the student bulletin board by the front desk.

There's a flyer smack in the middle with a photo of a girl about her age, pretty, long blond hair and straight teeth. _Have you seen me?_ the flyer reads.

 _Hanna Harvey. Eighteen. Last Seen October Third._

 _If you have any information please call._

 _A phone number._

October third. Lydia does the math in her head. Two days before she screamed.

She stares at the girl's face, _Hanna_ , and feels it again, that tickle in the back of her throat.

"Hey, are we leaving anytime soon? 'Cus seriously Lydia, moving makes me hungry. If you're just gonna stand here I'm gonna go get a taco or something."

She turns away from Hanna Harvey, and manages to give Stiles a look of pure disdain. "You didn't even do anything."

"I make a list," he says indignantly. "And I offered moral support."

"Fine Stilinski, let's get Scott and we'll find you a taco."

His face splits into a smile. "Did I mention how happy I am that you're coming back with us?"

She rolls her eyes. "Only once or twice."

She follows him out of the dorm and into the afternoon sunshine, where Scott has loaded up all of her belongings without breaking a sweat. They leave the car and walk to get food, and Lydia stays firmly between the two boys, hiding behind her sunglasses.

She doesn't look back, not once, even when she swears she hears the faintest whisper murmuring _Hanna Harvey_ over and over inside her head like a mourner's prayer.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi guys! Sorry updates have been slow, I've been dealing with some personal stuff. Thanks for reading ;)**

They spend the night back in the boy's apartment turning the little area off the living room into a Lydia's new bedroom. Lydia makes up the futon with her pink and mint green dorm sheets, carefully lines up her heels along one wall.

Stiles doesn't even offer her the use of his closet, just opens the door and quirks an eyebrow at her. She hangs up her party dresses, silk blouses, sweaters, steps back and looks at all her beautiful clothing hanging next to plaid button downs and tee shirts with Marvel characters on them.

It makes something in her chest go cold, like a premonition, their clothes side by side. She doesn't thank him but he's Stiles Stilinski, the boy who never asked her for anything other than to notice that he existed.

She tries to sleep that night, wrapped tightly in her comforter, but she feels strange, that familiar loneliness from Stanford creeping back in. Scott and Stiles are going back to their classes tomorrow and she feels lost, unmoored, another night in an unfamiliar bed.

Finally she gives up on sleep and gives in to the tug in her chest, crawls out of her blanket cocoon and tiptoes out of the living room and down the hall to Stiles' room. She waits, one hand on the door, testing herself.

She pushes the door open with the tip of her fingers and walks inside.

She curses her poor impulse control immediately, because he's sprawled out of his stomach in only a pair of boxer briefs, and he's gotten bigger since high school, grown another inch and since when does Stiles have _back_ muscles?

Lydia approaches the bed and quietly pulls back the dark blue comforter, crawls under it and curls up with her knees folded into her chest, listens to the familiar sound of Stiles breathing.

And then the sheets rustle as he rolls into her, flings one arm lazily around her chest and wraps around her from behind.

"Been wondering when you were gonna show up," he says throatily.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, and somehow it comes out defensively, like there's no other reason she would ever find herself in his bed.

His chest is warm and firm against her back, one of his hands splayed low on her stomach. The strangest part is how right it feels, being back in his arms. Being held by the boy who saved her life senior year, her anchor.

A boy she ignored because she loved Jackson and she cared for Aiden and she wanted to help Jordan. She's Lydia Martin, she can do anything, and she wanted to change them, fix them. Got distracted by the drama, got obsessed with taming monsters.

And maybe she was daring herself, to see how close she could get to it, the monster, charm the beast like a snake charmer.

Do what she couldn't do with Peter. Beat him, take control, change her story.

"Hey," he murmurs. "You okay?"

She tucks her face into the fold of his elbow, her cheek pressed against his bicep. "I'm fine, Stiles."

She feels his nose press into her hair. "God, I missed you," he breathes.

Her eyes tear up, because god, she missed him too. She blinks and a stray tear slides out, rolls off her cheek and onto his arm.

"Hey," he whispers. "Lydia, hey-"

"I'm fine," she says again, maybe a little harshly, the back of her throat aching from holding in tears.

"It's okay," he says softly. "I won't tell."

That's the thing that breaks her. That he knows, how she hates being vulnerable, tries to hide her feelings behind lip gloss and math equations. Knows that under her scathing words and perfectly curled hair is a scared little girl who needs him to hold her.

She can't help it, she's been keeping everything in for weeks: her loneliness, the voices, Stanford, the psych units, the pills, the ribbon of panic that she's really done it this time, lost everything, her life just another supernatural tragedy.

She cries.

Stiles doesn't say anything, he just pulls her closer, presses his lips to the back of her neck while she lets out choking sobs into his arm.

After awhile her tears run dry and he forces her to roll over to face him, one hand firm on her hip. He wipes her tears off with his thumb and gives her a tissue.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "That was so embarrassing."

"I still think you look beautiful when you cry," he says quietly. "And you've had a really bad week. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

She blinks in the dim light. "It hurt my feelings that night," she whispers. "When you didn't come back."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "Your boyfriend was going on a murderous rampage and I had to deal with it."

"Oh," she says, and starts crying again.

"Oh shit," Stiles says. "Shit Lyds, I didn't mean it like that, don't cry."

She covers her face with her hands, what is wrong with her, why is she doing this?

"I'm sorry," she apologizes through her fingers. "It's just-I lost him, Stiles, I lost him and I lost her, I feel like no matter what I do I just end up losing. I can't lose anything else, Stiles."

He peels her hands away from her face, he's looking at her with earnest warm eyes. "You'll never lose me, Lydia."

She sniffs, she should be humiliated, crying in front of him like this, but it's Stiles, she's always been able to be herself in front of him. Why did it take her so long to realize it, that this is her safe place, here, him, in his arms.

"Promise?" she whispers.

He leans down and presses his forehead to hers. "Promise."

/

Lydia gets a job that week completely by accident. She discovers a coffee shop three blocks away from the apartment one morning after Scott and Stiles leave for class. She holes up there all day with her books from Stanford, determined to keep up even if she's not getting the credits.

The coffee is amazing but the service is atrocious, they're completely understaffed, and after a few choice words to the manager when she is forced to wait a full ten minutes for a refill cup of coffee she finds herself accepting an assistant management position.

She cashes her first paycheck when she gets it and tries to give it to Scott but he blushes and pushes her hand away, standing up from his desk chair where his biology book is open on his desk.

"Scott, don't be ridiculous," she scorns.

"You're a guest, you were sick; you don't need to pay rent, Lydia."

"Scott," she says sweetly. "Do you have a credit card with a obscenely high limit that your daddy pays for?"

He grins bashfully and rubs the back of his neck. "No."

"Then at least let me pay for utilities."

He sighs heavily, like accepting her offer is hurting his pride. "Alright, you win."

She beams at him and counts out three twenties. "Pleasure doing business with you, McCall."

/

Stiles knocks on the wall of her little bedroom on Thursday night looking irritatingly handsome in a navy blue henley and jeans. "Want to go to a party?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Is my name Lydia Martin?"

He grins. "We leave in an hour."

She curls her hair, paints her lips a vampy red and pulls on a black jersey dress that's simple in the front but almost backless. She pairs it with four inch nude stilettos and meets Scott and Stiles in the foyer.

"Do I look alright?" she asks casually, like she doesn't already know she looks like sin incarnate right now.

Stiles' eyes are practically falling out of their sockets. "Is the mirror broken or something, _alright_ isn't even in the same stratosphere as you."

Scott's laughing. "I think she gets it, man."

The party is in a crumbling old Victorian eight blocks away from their apartment. It's a house party, thrown by one of the guys who lives here. He's Scott's lab partner, invited him and everyone else he knows based on the sheer amount of students packed inside.

There's a moment where they stand in the entryway, Scott and Stiles on either side of her, both of them reaching down to grasp her hand, like an involuntary reaction. The familiar instinct to steel oneself, prepare for how the night will inevitably go wrong.

Both the boys feel it too, she can tell, because Stiles is scanning for possible exits and Scott is sizing up every guy who walks past them.

"You two need to relax," she sighs, tugging them both by their arms in the direction of the kitchen and the alcohol. "It's just a party."

"Hey Lydia, remember when you had a party and Peter mind-fucked you into putting wolfsbane in the punch?" Stiles mumbles, angling his body towards hers to avoid walking directly into a group of girls in crop tops and miniskirts.

"Remember the glow in the dark party?" Scott mutters.

"Look," she says. "Technically this my first college party-"

"Wait, what?" Stiles interrupts. "What the hell were you doing at Stanford, anyway?"

"Studying," she snaps. "Lots of studying."

"Shocker," Scott teases.

"Please," she asks Stiles. "Can we please just have one normal night like normal teenagers?"

"Lydia, I am a normal teenager."

She smacks his arm. "You know what I mean."

They each pay five bucks for a red solo cup filled with what's apparently everclear and pink lemonade. It burns going down but soon her body is filled with a pleasant warmth, limbs feeling loose as the alcohol flows through her.

Music is pounding through someone's speakers and she pulls Scott and Stiles into the living room where everyone is dancing. She ends up crushed between them and for a blissful hour they just dance, her hips and ass rolling against them, head thrown back, remembering what it's like to just _feel_ , to have a warm body pressed against hers.

They get more drinks, until her head is swimming with the music and the heat and go back to dancing, throwing their arms around because they're young and _fuck it,_ they're finally free of Beacon Hills and might actually make it through a party unscathed for once.

She can't remember the last time she was able to let go like this, revels in it, until Scott, who's really only slightly tipsy despite the four drinks he's had, decides that she and Stiles are done, which might be fair because they're not dancing so much as swaying together, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

She stumbles in her heels on the grass outside the house so she kicks them off, _stupid heels_ , so what if they make her ass look extra good.

"Stiles," she calls out, beckoning. "I need a ride!"

He gives her a piggyback home, heels clutched in her hands, while Scott gently guides them down the street, one hand on her back when she starts to slip.

At Stiles and Lydia's insistence Scott makes them all a frozen pizza and they curl up on the couch together with the pizza on the floor, and when she wakes up in the morning her head is pounding and Stiles is practically comatose and lying half-off the couch.

"Hey," Lydia hears Scott say quietly from the doorway to the kitchen. "You want coffee?"

"God yes," she groans, poking Stiles with her toe. "How are you not hungover?"

Scott shrugs. "Supernatural healing has its benefits."

"No fair," she complains. "And bring water too, coffee is dehydrating."

She reaches over Stiles, his hair almost brushing the floor; how this boy manages to sleep in positions like this is beyond her. She turns on the tv, scrolling slowly through the channels until she hears something that makes her stomach clench, the channel is the local morning news.

"The body of a young college student was found last night by a pair of campers in the Presido near the Golden Gate Bridge. The body has since been identified as Hanna Harvey, who was reported missing almost three weeks ago after she failed to return to her dorm room after a party..."

"Stiles." He doesn't respond so she kicks him, watching him jerk and nearly smack his head against the floor, serves him right for sleeping upside-down.

"Who-what!" Stiles looks around wildly and sinks back against the couch. "Jesus Lydia, what the hell did I ever do to you?"

"Stiles, look."

She points toward the tv, where they're showing a photo of Hanna Harvey, young and blond and beautiful, eyes shining with youth and promise. Underneath the photo a banner of words read, _Stanford freshman girl found buried near Golden Gate Bridge_.

"Shit," Stiles curses. "She was in your class."

"She lived in my dorm."

Stiles looks horrified. "And someone murdered her."

"Yeah." She scoots a little closer to him and Stiles stretches his arm out and pulls her so she's wedged between him and the back of the couch, her cheek against his chest.

"Fuck," Stiles says hoarsely. "She looks a little like Heather."

She does actually. Lydia finds his hand and links her fingers through his, squeezes. "Yeah, she does. Did. Shit."

Stiles reads something off the tv and frowns. "Hey, that says the last day people saw her was October third. Wasn't that right around when you screamed?"

"Two days before."

"Fuck." Stiles makes a loose fist and pushes it against his forehead. "Fuck, Lyds."

"I know." She pushes her cheek against his chest, wishing she could get closer, hide inside of him, curl up between his ribs and go back to sleep. "So much for my delusions of normality."

Stiles sighs. "What's that saying? No matter where you go, there you are?"

She presses her palms into her eyes, feels a ghost of the scream in the back of her throat. "We're going to investigate this, right?"

Stiles groans, throwing his head back against the armrest of the couch. "What if it's just a random crime?"

"Really?" she says dryly. "It's us, when is it ever random?"

"Good point," he mutters. "But Lydia, seriously, the point of going to college at all was to get away from the supernatural shit. You know, before it kills us?"

She pushes up on her elbow to sit up, legs pressed against his. "Someone killed her, Stiles. I screamed. I _felt_ it. You can't ask me to ignore that."

His expression softens. "I know, Lydia. I just- fuck I worry about you, okay?"

"Let's just check it out," she says. "Go to the funeral, sniff around the family. If there's nothing going on, if they're all human, I'll let it go, okay?"

She can tell he wants to tell her no, but it's Stiles, he can never say no to her. "Fine," he says. "But you let me help. And Scott. You don't do this alone, okay?"

She holds out her hand and they shake on it. "Deal, Stilinski."

"So." Scott comes into the room carrying three mugs of coffee in one hand and two glasses of water in the other. "What's the plan, then?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I own nothing, please R &R :)**

The funeral for Hanna Harvey takes place in a beautiful old church in Walnut Creek, half an hour east of San Francisco, on the first Thursday of November. Lydia, Stiles and Scott file in quietly and sit in a pew near the back so they can watch as other people come in.

Lydia smoothes the skirt of her black fit-and-flare dress over her knees, trying to avoid looking at the poster board in the front of the church, a big blown up photo of Hanna. She rubs one fist absentmindedly over the pressure in her chest.

Another funeral for another beautiful dead girl.

"I'd just like to point out, funerals seem to be much more of a human thing," Stiles says in her ear, gesturing towards the front pews filled with weeping Harveys, all blond and beautiful like Hanna. "If she was supernatural they'd keep it quiet, wouldn't they?"

"Probably," she admits.

Scott shifts in the pew next to her, looking uncomfortable in his suit. "I can't smell anything."

"What do you mean?" she asks sharply.

He shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. "Everything just smells like grief, I can't cut through it."

"What were you expecting to smell, guilt? _Culpability_?" Stiles mutters. "'Cus why would it ever be that easy?"

"Can we please focus?" Lydia hisses. "We're supposed to be doing recon here."

"Look," he says quietly. "I know you don't want to hear this, but-"

"Scientific method, Stiles."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't draw conclusions before testing your hypothesis."

"I understand what the scientific method is, Lydia."

"Then don't tell me she's human without any evidence."

He works his jaw. "We don't have any evidence that she's not."

She widens her eyes in exasperation. "Then why did I scream, Einstein? Why would I scream for some random human girl with no personal connection to me?"

"I don't know," he says defensively. "But maybe we should be researching banshee screams instead of crashing some poor girls funeral-"

"Be quiet, it's starting," Scott chastises.

The funeral service is awful and lovely and sad. Lots of people talk: Hanna's brothers, her cousins, her best friends from high school, her pledge sisters. Everybody cries, even Stiles ducks his head for a moment and wipes under his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

When it's over everyone congregates on the stone steps outside the church. Her family is huddled together over the coffin and groups of girls are hanging off each together, sobbing.

"If I don't go now I'm gonna miss my lab," Scott reminds them. "You sure you guys will be okay?"

"Us?" Stiles slings his arm around Lydia's shoulders. "We're the dynamic duo! Detectives Stilinksi and Martin are all over this."

She rolls her eyes and gives Scott a quick kiss on the cheek. "We'll be fine, go to class."

She and Stiles get in the Jeep and join the funeral procession, follow a long lines of cars away from the church to the Harvey's home, where caterers have set up a buffet lunch in a window lined conservatory in the back of the house.

Stiles whistles softly, filling up a plate with bruschetta, goat cheese and spinach pastries, garlic mashed potatoes. "So the Harveys are loaded."

"How do you not weigh three hundred pounds?" she asks, carefully scooping sliced strawberries onto her plate.

He grins through a mouth full of chocolate croissant. "High metabolism."

"That is so not fair," she grumbles, taking a bite out of a strawberry.

"Hey," he says, brushing her waist with her fingertips. "You look really beautiful today. In a totally tasteful, funeral-appropriate way."

She feels a flutter of _something_ , like a memory, the memory of a cream satin dress cool against her skin, Stiles demanding that she get off her cute little ass and dance with him.

"Lydia?" he questions.

She reaches out and wipes a smear of chocolate off his bottom lip, noting the way his pupils slightly dilate as her touch lingers on his mouth. "Don't be a heathen. Oh look, there's her mother, come on."

"Lydia," he whines, but he lets her pull his plate out of his hand so she can pull him by the arm across the room.

Hanna's mother has blond hair cut to her shoulders, a huge diamond encrusted wedding band, and skin that's perfectly smoothed by Botox and white with grief.

"Hi Mrs. Harvey," she says gently. "My name is Daphne."

"Oh hello dear." Mrs. Harvey lays one shaking hand over hers. "You knew Hanna?"

"She lived in my dorm. She was very nice."

"Thank you," she says, her voice wavering. "And who is this young man?"

"Fred," Stiles says without missing a beat, reach out his hand. "I'm very sorry about your daughter."

"Thank you," the woman says, blinking back tears. "If you'll excuse me, there are so many people to talk to." She lets out a shuddery breath. "Hanna was loved by so many."

"Jesus," Stiles mutters when she's out of earshot. "That was fucking terrible."

"Scooby Doo," Lydia hisses. "Really?"

"What?" Stiles exclaims. "It's a classic. I thought we were doing a bit."

"Whatever," she huffs. "Time for phase two. I'm going to look around in her room while you pump her friends for information."

"And how exactly am I going to do that?"

"See over there, that girl in the purple dress with the curly hair?" She subtlety points across the room at a group of girls squished together on a love seat. "That's Kari Edwards. I'd start with her; she was friends with Hanna since middle school. And she just broke up with her boyfriend so she should be the easier nut to crack."

Stiles looks mystified. "How do you know that?"

"Research. Between Facebook and Instagram you can learn almost everything about someone."

"That's not concerning," he mutters.

She spins Stiles around to another corner of the living room where a group of skinny blond girls are all crying in a circle. "If that doesn't work try those girls, they're some of her pledge sisters. Lacey, Britta, and Noelle."

"Lacey, Britta and Noelle," Stiles parrots back quietly.

"Lacey was the closet to Hanna, so I'd try her first. They had a lot of classes together, if Hanna was acting strangely before she died Lacey probably knows about it-"

"I know how to work someone for information," Stiles interrupts, sounding amused.

"Britta's not very smart," Lydia continues. "It should be easy to get some good stuff out of her, she likes to gossip. And Noelle is completely boy-crazy, I'm sure she'd tell you anything given the right incentive."

"Lydia, are you asking me to flirt to get information?" he asks, faux-scandalized.

She flutters her eyelashes at him. "I'm telling you to use the situation to your advantage."

His upper lip curls into a grin. "And what's the situation?"

Lydia rests one palm flat on his chest and straightens his tie with her other hand. "The situation is, we're at a funeral with plenty of heartbroken girls just waiting for some cute guy to offer a shoulder to cry on. Use it."

He curls his fingers over her wrist, giving her a loopy smile. "You think I'm cute?"

"Cockiness isn't attractive," she reprimands, and lightly pushes him in Kari Edwards's direction.

Lydia walks quickly up the stairs, her heels sinking into the plush maroon carpet. At the top of the stairs are three doors on either side and one at the end of the hall. She tries the first door, very quietly opens it to reveal a large mahogany bed with a green plaid coverlet, sports posters on the wall, a bong partially hidden behind a sweatshirt.

It must be one of Hanna's brother's rooms. She closes the door, carefully checks behind her but there's no one on the second floor. She tries the next door, holding her breath, and tiptoes inside.

 _Jackpot_. Periwinkle painted walls, white eyelet curtains, a double bed with floral patterned sheets.

Hanna's bedroom.

She starts with the closest dresser and goes through the drawers one by one. Her fingers crawl under lacy thongs and boy shorts, cotton tank tops, silk camisoles. She doesn't even know what she's looking for; mountain ash maybe, or wolfsbane.

Something to prove that Hanna was like them, prove that she screamed for a reason. Lydia needs there to be a reason, cannot accept that she's doing this now, cannot go back to being her - the girl who screams until she loses everything.

The drawer of Hanna's nightstand is slightly more revealing: three condoms past their expiration date, a small glass-blown pipe in a silk jewelry bag, and a plastic bag the size of a postage stamp filled with white powder.

She slips the cocaine into her purse and starts to slide her hand under the mattress, freezing when she hears the sound of voices through the bedroom door.

She tiptoes to it and presses her ear against the wood. She can make out the sound of two male voices talking in low tones. When she peeks out the keyhole she sees two lanky blond boys right across the hall.

Hanna's brothers. Shit.

Her first option is to wait it out, however long it takes, and then sneak out of the room and hope no one catches her.

Or she can hightail it out the window.

She carefully sits down on the windowsill, fingertips gripping the wall as she looks for the best exit strategy. There's a tree only a few feet away, she could probably jump and catch one of the more solid branches.

Then again if she misses she could tear her hands to shreds on the bark, get impaled, risk possible broken limbs and/or internal bleeding. _No thanks_.

She cranes her head to the right and sighs with relief when she sees it: a rose trellis, only a foot away from the window. Perfect.

She pulls her heels off and drops them one by one onto the soft looking grassy lawn below. She takes a deep breath to focus and slides to the right edge of the window. She grips the edge with her right hand and pushes off with her left foot, swings her body out the window and catches the trellis with her left hand, bare toes curling around the rungs.

" _Ohmygod_ ," she exhales, resting her forehead against the brick for a moment. She takes a deep breath and climbs down, slides her feet back into her pumps and texts Stiles to meet her in front of the jeep.

Stiles comes out a few minutes later, tie askew. "So!" he yells. "Climbed out a window, did you?"

She flashes him a coy smile. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

He grabs her hands and holds them up to his face, and when he doesn't see any injuries he kisses her fingertips.

"You could've texted me," he says tenderly. "I'm an expert at creating diversions, could've gotten you out without you having to scale down a building."

"I don't need you to rescue me."

He nods and then has the audacity to _wink_ at her. "It's nice to know I can though, right?"

She can't help it, it makes something in her entire being flutter when she remembers that night, waking up on a table to Stiles looking at her with galaxies in his eyes, and all she could say for hours, over and over again: _he saved me_.

"What happened to you?" Lydia asks, straightening his crooked tie.

He smirks. "Taking advantage of the situation."

"Not too much, I hope," she says lightly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Come on, let's find a restaurant around here. I'm starving."

They find an Italian place near the church where the funeral was. At three pm it's almost completely empty. She feels like they're play-acting at grown ups, all dress up together, her hand in Stile's elbow as the host seats them in a leather booth in a quiet corner of the restaurant.

"So you didn't find anything, right?" Stiles asks. "I'm assuming you would've lead with that."

She sighs. "Nothing significant."

He raises an eyebrow. "Anything insignificant/"

She frowns slightly, feeling slightly guilty for disclosing Hanna's secrets. "She might have had a bit of a drug problem. I found some...paraphernalia."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "You thinking drug deal gone wrong?"

"In Palo Alto?" she scoffs. "Doubtful."

When the waiter shows up Lydia grills him on the wine list until he gets so flustered he forgets to card them.

"You're a genius," Stiles remarks in delight, his long fingers curling around his glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

She grins, tossing her hair. "You know I never get tired of hearing that."

"Look," he says. "We're gonna talk about it, right?"

"Talk about what?" she asks innocently, carefully sipping from her glass so she doesn't smear her lipstick.

"Lydia," he groans. "You. Banshee. Screaming, I thought we were gonna talk about this, c'mon."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Lydia, Valack drilled a freaking hole in your head, we still don't know how it affected your powers."

"Trepanation," she says softly, grateful that all the tables around them are empty. "It's called trapanning. What he did to me."

Stiles points an accusing finger at her. "Do not think you're getting out of this just because you threw some Latin at me."

She glares at him. "We're at a nice restaurant and we have a bottle of wine. Can you please not ruin it? I'm going to lose my appetite."

He gives her a determined look. "I'm not going to just drop it, Lydia."

"Later?"

He groans and tugs on his hair. "Lydia!"

"Stiles."

"Fine," he exhales. "Fine, but only because you got us wine."

She grins. "Good to know old fashioned bribery still works on you."

He chuckles. "Let it never be said that I'm not easy."

She can't help but laugh too. "Drink your wine, Stiles."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I own nothing, please R &R :)**

When Lydia come home from her shift at the coffeehouse the next afternoon (home, because even if her name isn't on the lease it's where Scott and Stiles live and she marvels at that, how easily home can become a person instead of a place) Stiles is sitting at the kitchen counter in front of his open laptop, his eyes full of tears.

"Stiles?" She drops her bag in the middle of the kitchen, crossing the room quickly, her heels clacking against the tile. "What's wrong?"

"Hey, Lydia," he says thickly.

She hops up onto the stool next to him. "What happened?"

"I, uh- I just finished reading Hanna's police report," Stiles admits.

"How'd you get a copy of the police report?"

"My dad."

 _Of course_. "And?"

"It was, um...it was pretty bad."

"Tell me," she says immediately.

He inhales hard and blinks a few times. "They found sedatives in Hanna's system. I uh, talked to Scott's mom, she said the drugs were hospital-grade. They think that's how she was abducted. Someone snuck up on her and injected her."

"How do they know that?"

"They found a needle mark on the inside of her right elbow. And she didn't have any defensive wounds. She couldn't fight back."

His eyes flick from the computer screen to Lydia, and she realizes he's trying to push himself to keep going.

"When they found her, uh, _body_ , her hands and ankles were tied together with nylon rope. "Her-" Stiles chokes and rubs at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Her underwear was in her mouth."

"Oh my god," she breathes. "Oh my god, he-"

"He raped her," he says flatly. "They checked during the autopsy."

Lydia feels dizzy; she drops her elbows into the counter and rests her head in her hands. "What was the cause of death?"

He blinks and a tear rolls out of the corner of his eye. "She was strangled with the rest of the rope."

A little sound tears out of her throat. She presses her fingers against the tender skin, remembering the terror of not being able to get enough oxygen, her brain screaming against Jennifer's assault. How the skin had bruised and she'd felt the strangest sense of pride in that. Proof that she survived.

Stiles sniffs and they sit there together for a moment, quiet, mourning a stranger.

"I saw her body after," he says thickly. "Heather."

Heather, the virgin sacrifice. Blond, young, and strangled.

Lydia shivers. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw it. In the morgue. Melissa showed me; she didn't know I knew her until she saw my face. I kept thinking about how scared Heather must've been. I left her there in that basement and all I could think about was that if I hadn't-"

"Maybe you would be dead instead of her," she says, curling her fingers around his forearm and squeezing. "You can't change the past, Stiles. Don't try."

He squints at her. "How'd you know I was still a virgin back then?"

She snorts. "Please, you were practically begging for someone to deflower you."

He narrows his eyes. "Danny told you."

She nods in confirmation. "Danny told me."

He sighs heavily. "I'm starting to think it's a good thing you didn't like me in high school."

"I liked you." She feels offended and she doesn't even know why.

Stiles roles his eyes. " _Liked_ me, liked me."

"Why would that be a good thing?"

"'Cus the girls who liked me ended up dead!" he exclaims, his arm flailing out of her grasp. "Heather, Erica, remember _Erica_? Jesus Christ Lydia, it's like I'm cursed!"

"Malia liked you," she points out, silently noting that no one has actually heard from Malia since they all started school.

"That's different," he groans. "She needed me to help her learn how to be like, not completely feral, and in retrospect what I think she mostly liked about me was the sex..." he trails off, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink.

Lydia grins and rests her chin in her hands. "Do go on."

"Never mind," he mutters.

"You know you're not the only one who could say that," she says casually. "I watched Jackson die. Twice in one night, that was _fun_. And then Aiden died, trying to help me."

"And then Parrish, yadayada, what's your point?"

"My point is, there's a difference between correlation and causation."

"So what, I'm not the cause, I'm just a date point?"

"There you go."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "So what's the cause?"

"Beacon Hills, obviously. That place is a literal hellhole."

"You know we have to go back in like three weeks for Thanksgiving, right?"

"Motherfucker," she swears.

"Hey," Stiles says, nudging her with his knee. "So you liked me in high school? You, Lydia Martin, liked me?"

"I didn't _like_ you, like you."

"But you liked me. Like a person?"

"Once I noticed you," she snaps.

Stiles just grins. "So you really liked me?"

"Yes, okay? Is it that hard to believe?"

"No, it's just, you're blowing my mind right now."

"I don't know why that is." She wraps her arms defensively around herself. "I came to you when Jackson died-when we thought he died. I called you when I found the lifeguard. I always went to you."

"Yeah," Stiles says. He's jiggling his legs against the rung of the school. "Why was that?"

"I don't know," she whispers. "You just...you always saw me for who I really was. Sometimes I didn't want to have to pretend to be something that I'm not."

Stiles is looking at her with an expression she can't read. "That's a good reason," he says softly.

"Thank you." She pushes some of her hair behind her ear, feeling self-conscious, which is ridiculous, because it's Stiles. "Did you like me?"

She feels like an idiot as soon as it's out of her mouth, because everyone knows how he feels about her. And also because she sounds like one of _those_ girls, a pathetic girl with no self-esteem, the kind of girl she and Allison would have sneered at.

To her shock Stiles starts to laugh. "Truth?"

"Truth," she says nervously, why is she nervous?

"Honestly, Lydia, half of the time I fucking hated you."

She pulls away from him like she's been hit. " _What_?"

"Well you drove me crazy! You insisted on putting yourself in dangerous situations, and you were so freaking headstrong, you have no idea how I hard I tried, we all tried, just to keep you from getting killed-"

"I'm sorry I was such a burden," she says icily.

He frowns and leans forward so he's in her space, and puts one hand flat on the counter, right next to her elbow. "You know that's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I hated you because no matter what you did I couldn't stop loving you."

He's close enough to kiss her, if he wanted. "Couldn't?" she whispers. "Or can't?"

He gives her a look of absolute longing that she feels all the way down to her toes. "Lydia."

"Stiles, I-"

The front door of the apartment slams shut and they both jump.

"Hey!" Scott calls out. "There's a new taco place that just opened up by campus, c'mon let's go! Stiles!"

Stiles groans and mimics slamming his head into the counter. "I'm gonna kill him. I'm going to grab him by his furry little ears-"

She slaps her hand over his mouth. "Those furry little ears have super hearing."

Stiles pushes off from his stool with a heavy sigh and holds his hand out to her. "C'mon."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Do I look like the kind of girl who eats tacos on a regular basis?"

He grins hopefully. "You could be."

She frowns. "You two are going to be terrible for my physique."

Stiles glares at her. "Food is good. You need food."

"We're going running tomorrow," she says sternly, taking his hand.

"Yeah, yeah," he waves his free hand at her. "Whatever you want."

They get tacos with Scott and buy margaritas with fake ID's Danny set them up with before they graduated (with strict instructions to never mention where they came from) and none of them talk about death, about sacrifice or murder, and for a few hours it's like they're normal again.

It feels good, in a way where Lydia knows it's a lie but it's so nice to pretend she can almost convince herself it's the truth, that she's just a girl sitting at a table outside with her two best friends, tequila and lime sharp on her tongue, the three of them young and beautiful, without a care in the world.

/

Lydia spends the weekend working at the coffeehouse, helping Scott study for his next bio midterm, and drinking cheap drugstore wine with Stiles on the little deck. They haven't been to a party since that first time and surprisingly it doesn't seem to bother any of them.

She wonders sometimes, if the level of codependency they all exhibit (Scott and Stiles still practically attached to the hip, her and Stiles sleeping together in his bed because it's to hard to be a wall apart, staying home on the weekends drinking cheap alcohol and watching movies instead of making new friends) is normal. She feels like a war veteran sometimes, her body and mind heavy with horrors she relives in her dreams, Scott and Stiles the only ones who can ever really understand.

She falls into a rhythm and it feels okay, if a little strange. Routine was something they didn't have in Beacon Hills, impossible because there was always some new villain to kill, plans to make, oddities to research. She goes to the coffee shop during the day while Scott and Stiles are in classes, comes home and eats dinner with them, studies along with them even though she's not currently enrolled.

She comes home on Monday with a terrible headache, pain throbbing at the base of her neck and radiating up behind her eyes. She drops her bag on the little vintage table in the hallway that she liberated from a sidewalk sale the other week.

Scott comes out his room in a pair of basketball shorts and a worn tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. "Hey, I'm gonna order a pizza, you want some?"

She pushes her fingertips into the hinges of her jaw, trying to rub out the tension. "Where's Stiles?"

"It's Monday, he has Stats."

"Oh right," she says faintly, remembering that Stiles registered for Stats at night, even though it was a three hour class, because he decided he'd rather be tortured once a week and get it over with than drag it out all week.

Scott's face wrinkles up in what she recognizes as his concerned face. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine, just a headache."

"Oh, I could..." He stretches his hand out to her and wiggles his fingers at her.

"That's okay." She gives him a wan smile. "I think I'm going to lie down for awhile."

"If you're sure." Scott gives her a sweet smile. "I'll save some pizza for you."

She grabs a pair of leggings and a thin cotton tank top from the narrow set of drawers pushed between the futon and the wall and carries them into Stile's room. She changes and crawls into his bed, sighing in relief as her body sinks down into the mattress.

Lydia lets her eyes shut and inhales. The sheets smell like Stiles. Her head is pounding but her limbs are so heavy as she drifts off, dream fragments already starting to flicker behind her closed eyelids-

A car honks and she jumps out of the road, temporarily blinded by the headlights. She gasps, tripping in the dirt, watching the car pass her, because she's standing on the side of the fucking street in bare feet, wearing the clothes she went to sleep in.

She must have walked here, wandered out of the apartment without Scott noticing somehow. She reaches instinctively for her phone and swears when she realizes she doesn't have it, or her purse.

Think, she tells herself, ignoring the swell of panic in her chest. She looks around, because in the case of an emergency or lack of weapon she knows to use her environment to her advantage. Find a phone, or someone who will lend her a phone, and not call the police because here's a strange girl wandering around in the street without proper footwear.

She squints up the road at a small building lit up in the distance. It's gotten dark out, which means she's been walking around for at least an hour, depending on when she left the apartment.

As she gets closer to the building she realizes it's a diner, a small neon sign lit up that reads _Judy's_ over the swinging door. She lets herself in and quickly walks across the tiles floor to the counter, where she hops up onto a stool and folds her bare feet under her legs.

"Can I help you?" The girl behind the counter looks younger than her, white-blond hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. There's an Emily Dickinson anthology open on the counter, full of highlights and annotations in the margins.

Lydia combs her hair away from her face, painfully aware that she has no money or ID and if the cops show up she is so totally, completely screwed.

"Yeah, my car broke down a mile back and my cell's dead," she lies fluently. "Can I use the phone?"

The waitress barely looks up from her book, twirling a pen in her fingers. "Phone's for employees only."

Lydia reaches out and grabs the pen out the other girl's hands. "Please," she asks, resisting a sudden urge to scream. "It's kind of an emergency."

The waitress sighs heavily and stands up, and then to Lydia's fury disappears behind the swinging doors towards the kitchen. Lydia stays on her stool, _don't panic, don't panic_ , but a minute later the waitress reappears with an iPhone clutched in her palm.

She pushes it across the counter surreptitiously. "Be quick," she says. "I'm not allowed to use my phone when I'm on a shift."

Lydia glances at the clock on the far wall. 8:40, which means Stiles is in class for twenty more minutes. She dials Scott instead, proud of herself for memorizing every member of the pack's numbers, just in case.

"Hello?" He answers sounding a little suspicious.

"Hey, it's me."

"Lydia? What the hell?"

"I need you to come get me," she says.

She can hear Scott stomping through the apartment through the phone. "Lydia, where _are_ you?"

"I'm at a diner. Judy's."

There's a moment of silence and then Scott says, "I didn't know you left."

There's an accusation in his words and she feels her cheeks flush. "You didn't hear me?"

"No, Lydia, Jesus, did you climbed out of Stile's window?"

She swallows back a wave of nausea. "I don't know. I don't remember anything."

"Oh," Scott says. "So you-"

"Yeah."

"The window's open and I would've heard you leave out the front."

She pushes her forehead against her palm, her earlier headache returning. "Well are you coming to get me or what?"

"Yeah, of course, just - I mean, shit, Lydia, you know?"

"I know. Scott?"

"Yeah."

"Bring me a pair of shoes."

Scott walks into the diner half an hour later, backpack slung over one shoulder and his helmet dangling in his hand. She waves to him from the counter where she's nursing a cup of coffee.

"Hey." He places his helmet on an empty stool and wraps one arm around her. "You okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she says tightly, trying not to let it show how totally freaked out she is. She hasn't done this in a long time, wandered around in a fugue state, ignorantly assumed it was something she had outgrown.

Scott pulls her pair of purple Nikes out his backpack and hands them to her. "So what happened?"

"How should I know?" she snaps. "One minutes I was falling asleep and the next I'm three seconds from getting run over."

Scott pushes one hand through his hair. "Lydia-"

"Not _here_ ," she hisses.

He gives her the puppy dog eyes. "I'm just worried about you."

She nods, knots the laces on her shoes and hops down from the stool. "I know. I just want to go home, can we go home please?"

Scott sighs and shoulders her backpack. "Yeah, of course."

"Thank you. Oh, and I need five dollars."

Scott rolls his eyes but digs a bill out of his wallet and passes it to her. She place it in the counter and pushes it across to the waitress, who's frantically scribbling notes in her book.

"Thanks for helping me. And the coffee," Lydia says, and the girl glances between her and Scott and gives her a little smile.

"Hope your car is okay."

"Thank you," Lydia says and lets Scott lead her out of the diner by her elbow.

His bike is parked in front the diner next to a few cars. "You sure you're not hurt?" he asks again, giving her his helmet and buckling it carefully under her chin.

"I'm fine, I was just walking."

"In bare feet," he points out, hopping on his bike and holding out his hand to her.

She feels it again, a phantom scream in the back of her throat, like a warning.

"Lydia?"

She swallows and pushes the scream away, leaving behind the faintest tickle in the back of her throat. "I'm fine, lets go."

She hops on behind him, arms tight around his waist, and Scott turns the engine over and pulls out onto the street and they drive home.

"Stiles will be back soon," he tells her as he unlocks the door to the apartment. "I think when he does we should, um. Talk. About what happened."

"Fine," she sighs, because she's too tired to argue. "I'm going to take a shower."

She scrubs her feet under the hot spray of the water, watching dirt swirl down the drain. She takes her time, stands under the water until it runs cold, towels dry and changes into a pair of yoga pants and one of Stiles' old Beacon Hills jerseys.

He's in the living room when she comes out, sitting on the couch with Scott. He jumps up when he sees her, tripping over the coffee table and flinging his arms around her.

"Why didn't you call me?" he demands, practically crushing her ribcage. "We had an agreement!"

"I didn't find a body, I just got lost," she mumbles, disentangling from his embrace and dropping into the leather armchair next to the couch.

"Okay sorry, but I think going into a banshee-related fugue state still warrants a call!"

"You were in class!"

"So?!" He looks incredulous.

"So I don't want to you missing classes because of me."

"It's one stupid class Lydia, you really think I give a shit about Statistics?"

"Maybe I don't want to ruin everything for you just because my fucked up banshee radar is going off!"

"Ruin everything for me?" Stiles shouts. "Have you gone completely insane?"

She pulls back, crossing her arms around herself. "I am _not_ crazy."

"Stiles, sit down," Scott says. "She's fine, don't yell at her."

"Oh, well, excuse me for caring!" Stiles throws his arms up in exasperation but obediently sits back down next to Scott.

"I didn't call you," she explains, resisting the urge to punch Stiles. "Because I don't want you to miss class because of you. I don't want you to miss things because of me."

Stiles looks completely baffled. "Lydia, I seriously don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Just because I blew up my own future doesn't mean I'm fine with messing things up for you," she says, staring determinedly down at her lap. "You guys are already letting me stay with you. I can't ask you for more."

Scott's jaw is twitching but he doesn't say anything. Stiles leans over the couch and grabs her by the hands, and yanks her off the chair and pushes her into the space between him and Scott.

His arm curls around his shoulder and she leans into it, lets herself fold into his warmth. "Do you honestly think after all this time there's anything you could ask me that I wouldn't want to give you?"

The honestly in his voice makes her cheeks flush. She can't look at him, but looking at Scott is almost worse. "I don't know," she whispers.

Scott clears his throat. "Lydia, we're pack. Pack takes care of each other, okay?"

She nods, comforted by the steady rhythm of Stiles breathing against her. "Okay."

"I know you don't want to talk about this," Stiles says softly. "But there's a lot we don't know about banshees. And after what Valack did to you...I just think we should keep an eye on it, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she agrees, because her head is pounding and she's so tired.

"I've been thinking," Scott says quietly. "If it's not just that."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well you're supernatural like me," he says, "and I know obviously your powers work differently, but...maybe you should try an anchor."

 _Anchor_. Stiles arm tightens around her.

"What do you mean?" she asks carefully.

"When you were at Stanford you and Stiles weren't really talking," Scott reminds her. "It was the first time since the sacrifice you were apart."

"You think that's the reason my powers are out of control?"

Scott shrugs. "I don't know if it triggered it. But maybe if you worked on the anchor part it would help you control it."

She's reminded suddenly of what Dr. Avain said that morning in the hospital. _Maybe you should utilize a support system_.

"Okay," she says. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

Scott grins. "Really?"

She twists up and looks at Stiles. "What do you think?"

Stiles gives her a reassuring smile. "I think you can use me however you want to, Lydia."

Scott groans loudly and they all laugh.

"Well if that's settled then I really want to go to bed," she announces.

"As your anchor I should probably go with you," Stiles says casually. "You know, just in case you need, ah, _anchoring_."

"Do not make me regret this, Stilinksi," she says, but secretly she's thrilled, because it's all she wants right now, his warmth, the comfort of his solid body next to hers.

Stiles slides his hand across the small of her back and she feels a shiver run up her spine that has nothing to do with being cold. "Wouldn't dream of it, Lyds."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I own nothing; please R &R :)**

It's the scream that wakes Lydia up, tearing out of her throat, but it's the pain that brings her back to consciousness, fire burning through every bone in her skull.

For a second she thinks she's back _there_ , in Eichen with Valack, can hear the whir of his drill, and she keeps screaming.

"Lydia! Hey, hey, Lydia, it's okay, you're okay." Stiles. "Lydia, c'mon, open your eyes. Lydia, damnit, wake up!"

She manages to open her eyes long enough to whimper, _trash_ , and Stiles lunges off the bed and gets the wastebasket just in time for her to roll over and throw up into it.

She starts to cry because she can't not, it's humiliating, and she's in so much pain she doesn't even care, she just wants it to stop, she needs it to stop.

"It's okay," Stiles whispers. He sounds upset. "We're here, Lydia."

Her mouth tastes nasty and her throat is hoarse. "It hurts; Stiles, it _hurts._ "

"Lydia." It's Scott, talking very quietly. "Is it your head again?"

She breathes shallowly and swallows back another wave of nausea. "Yeah."

The bed dips as Scott crawls onto it. She tries to curl away because she's afraid the pain is too strong, she doesn't want to hurt him, and ends up crying out instead as her head burns in agony.

His fingertips cup the sides of her head and she hears him groan. She can't do anything but cry softly, feeling the blunt edge of the pain dull, enough to realize she's in Stiles' room, curled up in the fetal position with Scott sitting behind her head as her pain flows through his veins.

"Stiles," Scott gasps. "Call Deaton."

"Are you sure?"

"Just do it!"

"Scott," she whimpers. "Scott, stop, it's okay."

Her head is propped in his lap, she can feel him panting above her. "I can't."

She tries to pull away but she's so exhausted she collapses right back against him. "It's okay, just stop."

"No, Lydia." His voice is gritty. "I can do it."

"Scott, he's not picking up!" Stiles sounds pissed. "What fucking good is he if he won't fucking pick up the phone?"

"Fuck." Scott's fingers are sending tiny tremors through her skull. "It's just-so much-pain. Jesus, Lydia, why didn't you tell us?"

She starts crying again, because she's hurting him, literally, and she never wanted this, she never wanted any of it. She hates this, hates that this is who she is, now.

"Lydia." It's Stiles, crawling up the bed to lie down next to her, his thumbs swiping under her eyes to catch her tears. "C'mon, look at me."

She presses her cheek against Scott's knee and blinks through tears. Stiles is inches away from her face, looking at her the way he did when she woke up on the table at Deaton's the night he saved her. Worried, frightened, and wholly, totally devoted.

"Hey," he whispers. "You with me?"

"Something's wrong." Her voice sounds thin and reedy. "It didn't used to be like this."

"I know." His hands are cool against her cheeks. "Jesus, you're burning up."

"Lydia." Scott sounds like he's going to pass out. "Tell me when-just tell me when."

"Stiles," she implores. "He's going to hurt himself."

Stiles reaches over her and pries Scott's hands off her. "Scott, enough, you're no use if you pass out."

She feels Scott collapse back against the headboard. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "I tried-I didn't know it would be that bad-"

"It's okay," she reassures him, tilting her head back to see him, pale and sweating in the dim light. "I feel better now, thank you."

Stiles yawns into his pillow, his hands pushing her hair back from her face. "You up or you wanna go back to sleep?"

She feels wrung out and drained. "Sleep."

Stiles gives her a look of approval. "Definitely."

"Don't go," she whispers. "Either of you."

"Shh." Stiles scoots closer so he's flush up against her, one of his arms draping around her waist. "We got you."

"Scott?" she checks.

"I'm here," he murmurs, and slips a hand under her neck to lift her head off his leg and lay it back down on her pillow. "Close your eyes."

She does and falls asleep almost immediately.

/

When she wakes up again it's morning, sunlight streaming through the window, and she's in the middle of the bed, next to Stiles, who's sitting up with his laptop balanced on his knees. He's got that look on his face, the one that says he's deep into a Google spiral. She sighs sleepily, taking pleasure at this, observing the curve of his jaw, watches those long fingers dance over the keys.

"I know you're awake," he says without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Mm." She stretches and rolls over so she's lying up against him, her shoulder pressed against his hip. "What're you doing?"

"Researching."

She yawns. "Banshees?"

"Pain bodies."

"The fuck is a pain body?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No fucking idea because Deaton is a fucking enigma and like, _no_ help at _all_ , because he's busy helping Liam and Hayden kill like, pixies or some shit, and only had a few minutes to run down his frankly _ridiculous_ theory."

"You talked to Deaton?"

"Yeah, he called a few hours ago." He stabs at the keyboard before giving up and shutting it. "Scott's in the shower, we have to go to class soon."

"What time is it?"

Stiles rubs his eyes, he's only wearing a pair of sweatpants and his hair is sticking up in nine different directions. He looks adorable. "It's almost ten."

" _Ten?_ " she screeches, digging frantically in her sheets for her phone.

"Relax, I already called you in sick."

"You didn't have to do that," she mutters, finally locating her phone under Stiles' right knee. There's a text from her boss telling her not to worry and she'll see her next Monday.

"Next Monday?!" she exclaims. "Stiles Stilinski, what did you do?"

Stiles looks sheepish. "I may have implied you needed the week off."

"Stiles!"

"What? You were sick! Well, supernaturally sick, but they don't need to know that."

"Stiles, what the hell am I supposed to do all week?"

Stiles slings his arm around her and she thinks she hates him. Who the hell does he think he is, doing that, giving her this charming smile that makes her want to forgive him on the spot, pride the only thing keeping her own smile in check.

"You're coming to school with us " he tells her, like the decision has already been made.

"What are you talking about?"

"Anchoring, Lyds."

She glares up at him. "You aren't making any sense."

"We were gonna try anchoring, remember? Staying together for awhile and since I have class today, so do you."

"Stiles, I'm not even in school."

"So? You can sit in on our classes, it'll be fun."

"Fun?"

"Lydia." He gives her a knowing look. "You're the one person I know who actually thinks learning is fun. Come on, you know you want to."

She presses her lips together, feeling exposed. Like she could ever hide from Stiles. "Are you even taking anything good?"

"Today is criminology, English comp, and Buddhism and modern psychology."

She raises a mocking eyebrow. "Buddhism?"

"What, I need a humanities credit! Scott has a bio for science majors lecture today if that's more your speed."

"So I'm going to classes with you all week? What about what I want to do?"

"Lydia, I'm pretty sure immersing yourself in academia all week is exactly what you want to do."

"Fine," she sighs, because he's right, even if she won't admit it. "I'll go to class with you."

"Oh come on." His arm squeezes her shoulders and her traitorous heart squeezes right along with it. "You love school. You're a closet nerd."

"Am not!"

"It's okay." He's full-on beaming at her now. "Just admit it, I won't tell."

"Fine." She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "I'm a nerd. Happy?"

He blinks at her. "That was seriously the hottest thing I think you've ever said."

She throws her pillow at him.

/

The USFCA campus is in the middle of San Francisco, just south of the Presido and beyond that, the bay, surrounded by galleries and restaurants and museums. It's easy to love San Francisco, Lydia thinks, with its liberal bend, pulsing with culture.

And remembers suddenly, full memory recall, so sharp and clear it's like she's back in the hallway of Beacon Hills High: Allison, standing shyly against the lockers, telling Lydia her mother used to be a buyer for a boutique in San Francisco.

Lydia realizes now Allison was probably lying, at least about her mother if not about living here too.

She'll never get the chance to ask her, now.

She buttons up her sweater with shaking fingers as she follows Scott and Stiles up sandstone steps toward Kalmanovitz Hall, the English department. (Scott and Stiles registered for the same English Comp lecture and section, because of course they did).

She feels free, here, like she did at Stanford, but without the weightless sinking feeling in her stomach, a feeling she now associates with being pack-less, lost and lonely. The city doesn't seem so big and scary with Stiles chattering a mile a minute right next to her and Scott's warm smile every time she asks a question.

Their English class is pretty standard but she still gets a thrill out of the experience: the smell of notebooks and dry erase markers, sleepy-eyed students clutching cups of coffee. Nobody seems to notice her as an anomaly, she sits right behind Scott and Stiles and constructs eloquent thesis statements along with the rest of the class.

Scott's bio lecture starts at the same time as Stile's Crim 100 and unsurprisingly Lydia chooses to go with Scott. They split from Stiles and walk to the Harney Science Center and slide into a row in a huge lecture hall. Scott fist bumps the guy in the seat behind him and introduces her as _Lydia, one of my best friends from home._

She feels a warm glow at his words, all the way down to her toes.

Her phones buzzes with a text from Stiles right as Scott's professor walks into the lecture hall. It's a photo of his syllabus with the topic of today's lecture: _Why'd they do it? Witches, criminaloids and the feeble minded._

Underneath the photo Stiles typed _witches?!_

She sighs and slides the phone across the desk to Scott, who rolls his eyes and turns her phone emphatically on silent.

Scott's bio lecture is an hour of pure joy. Ten minutes in she yanks Scott's notebook out of his hands and takes notes for him, draws detailed diagrams of ATP cycles and hardly notices that the hour completely flies by.

They meet back up with Stiles under a cluster of palm trees near the quad. He's chatting with a girl whose hair is twisted in a pile of dreadlocks on the top of her head and thick black eyeliner. Lydia sees the girl slide her hand in his sweatshirt pocket, just for a second, but disperses into a crowd of students before she can confirm what she saw.

Scott's done for the day but Stiles has one more class; Lydia decides to go with him while Scott hits the gym on campus and they make plans to meet up after at a cafe a few blocks away for dinner.

"Who was that?" she asks Stiles, hoping she doesn't sound like a jealous girlfriend, which would be ridiculous, because she's not.

She's his roommate, technically, which doesn't sound any less crazy.

"Oh that's Kaia," he says casually. "She's a criminology major too."

"Oh?" Lydia tilts her head suspiciously but Stiles just gives her a bright smile.

"Come on," he says, slinging an easy arm around her shoulders. "Enlightenment awaits!"

To her surprise she finds Stiles' Buddhism and Modern Pychology class fascinating. She sits next to him, enraptured, as his professor spends forty-five minutes taking about the human condition of suffering, attachment, and loss.

"There is no fear for one whose mind is not filled with desires," Stiles' professor says. "What does this mean? What is the Buddha trying to illustrate about human needs? How can the things we desire bring us pain? What is it about desire that creates fear instead of joy, suffering instead of peace?"

Stiles leans in close an whispers, "Clearly Buddha never met Peter Hale."

She had to swallow back a laugh and lightly slaps Stiles' arm. "Quiet, I'm learning."

/

They meet Scott at the Vela Rouge cafe on Arguello Boulevard, just a block north of Golden Gate Park. It's golden hour, Stiles' hair turning amber against the sunlight. She shivers, remembering that Hanna's body was found on the other end of the park, near the bridge, and leans into Stiles instinctively.

"This is better for brunch, really," Stiles muses, holding the glass door open for her. "The breakfast burritos are insane. But, you know, location."

Scott's already sitting at a table waiting for them, wearing a fresh vee neck, his hair damp from a shower. He and Stiles order beer with their fakes and toast to Danny while Lydia sucks down an ice water, rolling her eyes.

Scott and Stiles devour pizzas whole she systematically eats her way through a veggie sandwich on thick nine grain bread and a side salad. Stiles gets up to get another round of beers and Scott grins helplessly at her.

"Must be nice not having to worry about being the Sheriffs kid," Scott muses. "If we got caught with fakes in Beacon Hill he'd be grounded forever."

"There a lot of things it's nice not to worry about, here," she comments.

Scott's eyes get hazy and she can tell he's fighting a backlog of memories, the ghosts of Beacon Hills never far behind them. He shakes his head like a horse.

"This is Kira's favorite place," he says, an abrupt subject change. "I think she's happy to be in a city again. I never really thought about it before. How small home is. I think we ate here five times the first two weeks of school."

Lydia plays with the edges of her napkin, realizing this is the first time in weeks anyone has said Kira's name. Guilt creeps into her stomach. "How is she? We haven't..." She trails off, not sure what to say, if she should mention how strange it is that Kira hasn't been around, hasn't tried to visit Lydia or hole up in Scott's room with him.

"Yeah, about that." Scott looks uncomfortable. "We're sort of on a break."

"Since when?" she asks in surprise.

Scott sighs. "Since you got here."

Her mouth drops open in surprise, what exactly is he implying? "Scott-"

"Oh, no, shit, I didn't mean it like that." Scott looks remorseful. "It had nothing to do with you. It's just, well, I think you aren't the only one who had troubling adjusting. She, um, needed some space."

"Oh." She glances across the cafe, where Stiles is having an animated conversation with a guy wearing skinny jeans tighter than hers and an absurd mustache. "Are you okay?"

Scott shrugs, picking at the crust of his pizza. "It's probably for the best. Focus on classes and everything. She and I - well we never really got a chance to figure out what we really were, you know? Every time we'd make progress something else would happen and we'd have to push things to the back burner."

"Welcome to the singles club," she says cheekily. "Stiles is the founding member."

Scott doesn't laugh like she expected him to but gives her a furtive smile. "Sure, Lydia."

"Okay, Scotty!" Stiles reappears, three beers held between his slim fingers. "Pacifico for you and me." He plunks two bottles down on the table. "And for the lovely Lydia Martin, pear cider."

"You spoil me," she says lightly.

Stiles gives her a rather salacious grin. "As much as you'll let me."

Scott politely looks away, like he's trying to give them a moment to obliquely flirt in private, shifting his gaze to the flatscreen over the counter, and his faces turns grey.

"You guys," he says thickly. "Look."

On the screen is a stock photo of the city, but the reason for Scott's expression is in the text running across the bottom of the screen: _Killer on the loose?_

"What the fuck?" Stiles exclaims.

The photo changes and Lydia lets out a broken noise before she can stop herself.

Blond hair pulled back from the face of a girl with dispassionate grey-blue eyes and thin lips, behind an innocuous blue background, like a yearbook photo. It's a photo of a serious-looking girl, the kind of girl who might be prone to sad poetry and helping strangers.

Lydia's eyes blur, struggling to read the words that follow the photo: Sadie Meyers, eighteen. Strangled.

The photo blacks out and the station switches to a live feed. The diner looks different in the daylight, sadder, more depressing, but it's definitely the same building, same flickering Judy's sign.

"Oh god," Scott breathes, reaching across the table to grab her hand. "Lydia."

"What?" Stiles looks like he's going to throw up. "Please tell me you don't know her."

"She was at the diner last night when I picked Lydia up," Scott says brokenly. "She worked there."

Stiles groans. "This is bad, guys, this is really bad. I gotta call my dad." He pushes back from the table on shaky legs, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he stumbles towards the door of the cafe.

Lydia folds her elbows on the table and drops her head, trying not to cry. Scott squeezes her hand and scoots his chair closer to her.

"It'll be okay," he says feebly.

"Girls are being murdered," she hisses. "And somehow I'm connected to it, how is any of this okay?"

"We'll figure it out, Lydia," Scott vows. "We always do."

"I hate this," she whispers. "I hate this so much."

"I know," Scott murmurs. "We all do."

"Scott." Her voice is thick with tears. "It's always going to be like this, isn't it? We're never going to be normal."

Scott tugs her to him and wraps her up in a hug. "Maybe not. But we have each other."

She doesn't know if that's enough, but right now, it has to be.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I own nothing; please R &R :)**

The next few days are _tense_.

The sherif's contact at the SFPD tells him the force is starting to think the city has a serial killer. Stiles' dad manages to get a copy of Sadie's police report and it's just like Hanna's: raped, underwear in the mouth, tied up, strangled.

The only difference in the method is that Sadie's body was found in the trunk of her own car, still in the Judy's parking lot when the manager showed up in the morning. Stiles' theory is the perpetrator got interrupted, or maybe he's just sloppy, is all about the kill and less about the clean up.

Or he's getting cocky.

Stiles buys a poster board and spends half of Wednesday night building profiles of the victims, glues down strings to build connections while Lydia makes sure he doesn't forget to eat and lays out on his bedroom floor to watch him work.

The connections are these: Eighteen, blond, beautiful, local, students.

And, horrifyingly, _Lydia_ , connected to both of them without any understanding of why.

"Remember the Glen Capri," she whispers, running her fingers over the string that links all three girls' names together. "You accused me of being the darach."

Stiles' mouth contorts. "Okay, that is _so_ not what happened, it's not _my_ fault you're a banshee and inexplicably connected to death; it's not like I thought you were a cold blooded _murderer_."

"Oh, that's so much better," she sneers.

Stiles yawns and runs his hands through his hair. "You have to admit, you'd make an amazing femme fatale."

She can't help but preen a bit but says modestly, "It's the hair."

Stiles gives her a fond smile. "And the heels."

"And my badass attitude."

"Hey Lyds?"

She stretches out on her stomach, propped up by her elbows. "Yes, Stiles."

"Do you think if none of this ever happened...like if Peter never went on a fucking rampage and you and Scott never got bitten, or if the Alpha pack and Jennifer never showed up and we'd never awoken the nemeton...do you think we'd ever have become friends?"

She looks over at him in surprise. He looks vulnerable, staring down at his fingers instead of her. Remembers the boy with the buzzed head who talked a mile a minute, the boy who bought her a fucking flatscreen tv for her birthday, the boy who always saw her even when she barely noticed him.

"I don't know," she ponders. "I hope so."

He shrugs halfheartedly, twisting a length of string around his fingers. "I dunno. It's not like I could've ever competed with Jackson."

She flinches but he doesn't say it meanly. Just like he's sad. "Stiles."

"It's okay." He gives her a smile she knows is fake, and that rocks her a little bit, that she knows what Stiles looks like when he's pretending. "You loved him."

She reaches over his lap and untwists the string from his fingers before he loses circulation. "Yes," she says gently. "I loved Jackson. But I wasn't _in_ love with him."

Stiles's eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

She feels a bit of a rush in her ears, vertigo, like she's doing something she knows she can't take back, is about to careen right off the cliff. "I cared about Jackson. I wanted to be with him. But- Jackson isn't who I called whenever I was in trouble. He didn't like me because I was smart. He didn't even know I was smart."

"You didn't let him know," Stiles corrects quietly.

"Okay, fine, _yes_. I didn't-I didn't let him see the real me."

"Why not?"

Suddenly she's afraid she's going to cry. "You know why."

Stiles leans over the board, curling those long fingers around her wrists to pull her up to sit too, knee to knee with him. "You thought he wouldn't love you?"

She tries to smile but her eyes fill with tears. "You know what Jackson was like. Everything made him jealous. He wanted to be the best at everything, he needed to be the star, so-"

"So you made yourself small for him."

Lydia can barely look at him. "He wanted me. It felt-worth it, then. To be what he needed me to be."

Stiles is rubbing her hands between his. "You shouldn't have to hide yourself to make a guy like you, Lyds."

"I know that," she says, wincing at the frustration she hears in her voice. "Look, I'm trying to explain this to you."

"Okay," he says, and threads his fingers through hers, their hands pressed palm to palm. "I'm listening."

"I did love Jackson," she says. "But Jackson never knew me for who I really was. I never felt like I couldn't breathe until I saw him. He never made me hold me breath."

"Lydia," Stiles murmurs, and releases her right hand to cup her cheek.

She blinks and a few tears spill over. "I don't know how things would have happened if things had been normal. I don't care. It doesn't matter, Stiles."

His thumb drifts back and forth across her cheekbone. "Why not?"

"Because you were there. You always protected me. When Allison and Aiden died you were there-"

His eyes go dark. "Well yeah, I basically _killed_ -"

"Shut up, you did not," she says harshly, and starts to cry for real. "Don't say that."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Stiles leans forward and presses his forehead against hers. "Please don't cry, it's okay-"

"It's not okay!" she protests. Her eyes are squeezed shut but she can feel Stiles everywhere: his knees pressed against hers, his hands cupping the sides of her face. "It wasn't anyone's fault Stiles. We were kids, we had no idea what we were doing. We were just trying to survive."

"I know," Stiles murmurs. "I know, you're right."

She sniffs and a few more tears leak out the corners of her eyes. "Of course I am, I'm always right."

"Hey Lyds, open your eyes," Stiles whispers. "C'mon, don't hide from me."

She complies, slowly, flushing when she sees the way he's looking at her. Like he thinks she's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.

"He left me," she says in a small voice, and that's the worst part, that she cares, that she let her heart be carelessly broke by Jackson.

"Fuck Jackson," Stiles blurts out. "He missed out, not you. You're brilliant, and cool, and obviously sexy as all hell. Not like that's the most important part! But you're really pretty, and like, fierce, and one day you're going to win medals and awards and people will fall at their feet for you, Lydia. And I'm going to be there and I'm going to be so fucking proud of you for shining the way you were always meant to shine."

"Stiles," she whispers.

His hands are suddenly very warm against her skin and she realizes her lips are only an inch away from his, when did that happen?

"I love you," he says, slow and firm. He's bright eyed and nothing like the nervous boy he used to be, tripping over his words with reckless abandon.

He grew up and when she wasn't looking he became a man. How dare he? How did it take her this long to notice?

"I fucking love you," he says again. "And I don't care if you say it back because I-"

"Shut up," she breathes, and lurches forward on her knees and presses her mouth against his.

Stiles inhales in shock, hands flying off her face before settling at her waist, kissing her back and it's everything she never knew she was missing: perfect, right, every molecule of her body on fire, clinging to Stiles in desperation because she needs him to know, wants him to feel what she feels, the things inside her that are beyond words.

When Stiles pulls away his cheeks are flushed and his pupils are completely blown. "Did you-you wanted to explain something to me?"

"You're an idiot," she laughs, and he captures her lips in hers again, and there's no more talking for a long time.

/

"What were you talking about before?" she asks Stiles the next day from across the library table. "About pain bodies."

They're in Falconer, the biology library, so Lydia can watch Scott work on his paper for bio (meaning half-write it and edit it, the poor boy would be drowning without her).

Stiles stabs a pen at his heavy secondhand psychology textbook. "It's ridiculous," he says. "Psychobabble. No scientific proof whatsoever-"

"And I'm a werewolf, she's a banshee, and there's no scientific proof of that either," Scott says quietly without looking up from his laptop.

"I've seen your claws dude, don't need scientific proof."

"Stiles," Lydia pushes.

"Ugh, fine." Stiles slams his book shut, rolling his eyes when three girls at the next table glare at him. "Like I said, this is totally theoretical."

She leans over Scott's shoulder and scans his recent paragraph. "Go on- no, phosphate, not phosphorus, Scott, come on-I'm listening."

"Okay." Stiles twirls his pen between his fingers. "Okay, this is working off a theory-unproven, that I'm aware of, but I guess this is like a thing- so people store emotional trauma in their body."

Lydia frowns. "What, like literally?"

"I guess?" Stiles huffs and bites down on the pen. "I mean, like an energetic imprint. I think. So anyway, you experience trauma, corresponding emotion to trauma- sadness, fear, pain, whatever- and it gets stored in your body."

"Hence, pain body?" she assumes.

"Right. So, there's that going on, and then something triggers it, and your body is like, re-traumatized and all that pain comes back."

"What kind of trigger?" she asks, reaching across the table to pull the pen out of his mouth before he bites through the tip and gets a mouthful of ink.

"When you were in Eichen and Valack did-what he did to you..." Stiles frowns, clearly noticing the way she shrinks back at the mention of that. "He was trying to trigger your powers, right?"

She nods, feeling a bit breathless, and relaxed when she feels the warmth of Scott's hand settle between her shoulder blades. "He experimented on me, you know that."

"So Deaton thinks that's the trigger. Your powers."

"Wait, he thinks-what?" she asks to ask, frustrated, because she can't get this to make sense.

"He thinks while you were there your body learned to associate using your powers with pain. So when your powers come out it triggers your pain body-like a sense memory."

"Oh," she says softly, her fingers pressed against her right temple like the mouth of a gun. "Oh, I guess...okay. So how do we fix it?"

Stiles makes a face, reaching across the table to pull her hand down, loosely capturing her fingers. "That's the thing. He doesn't know how."

Disappointment hits her hard and fast, Scott must be able to smell it because his hand starts to run soothingly across the back of her neck. "Don't worry, we'll find a way."

"And until then we've got Scott and his super-convenient pain-drain trick. And we have to figure out the temperature thing, which Deaton had no clue about, I swear, it's like he's never met a banshee before you."

"What temperature thing?" she asks, she has no idea what he's talking about.

"You were burning up," Stiles tells her. "You were practically at 103."

"And you know this how?" Lydia asks tartly.

"Uh...'cuz I took your temperature after you passed out?" Stiles looks appropriately bashful.

"Oh yeah, that's not creepy."

"It was for research!" Stiles exclaims. "I was collecting data."

"Oh, okay, that makes it slightly less creepy," she concedes. "Theories?"

Stiles taps the tips of his fingers against hers. "Okay, so you know if you run too many programs on a laptop at once it starts to overheat?"

"Yeah." She quirks an eyebrow at him, wondering where he's planning on taking this metaphor.

"Okay, so your body is the hard drive-"

"Are you seriously comparing me to a hunk of metal?"

"Just let him finish," Scott mumbles, stabbing at the keyboard. "This is taking forever."

"Thank you, Scotty. As I was saying, think of your body as the hard drive and your powers as the software. Valack essentially accelerated your powers, right? He interfered with their natural development. So I'm thinking, maybe your body isn't equipped to handle that much energy. All that energy running through your body causes a temperature spike."

Lydia considers this. "That's not a totally irrational theory."

Stiles grins. "Why thank you."

She does her best to smile back but she doesn't like it, the way it makes her body feel completely out of control when it's happening, how much she dreads the next time her powers strike. "Well I guess that's a start-no Scott, covalent bonds, come on, you know this."

Scott groans. "I suck. I'm never gonna pass."

"Don't be stupid, have I ever let you fail?"

Scott shakes his head sullenly. "No."

Stiles pounds his fist on the table, throwing a snarky glance at the girls at the other table, lie he's daring them to complain. "That's the spirit!"

/

Scott stays on campus that night to attend a mixer for science majors. Stiles retreats to his room to type up a short paper for his criminology class so Lydia spreads out her math textbook and notes from Stanford and does some calculations from the book. It's important, especially when she gets more into pure math, to keep the mind agile, gets completely lost in the comfort of numbers until Stiles knocks on the doorframe.

"Hey," he says, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "You wanna hang out?"

"Sure." She closes her book and puts her materials back in her book bag. "What do you wanna do?"

"Well..." Stiles has a look on his face that looks suspiciously like anticipation. "How do you feel about trying something with me?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "Trying what?"

Stiles pulls his hand out of his pocket and reveals a joint. "Wanna smoke this with me?"

"You want to smoke _pot_ with me?"

"Only if you want to."

She looks at the joint in fascination. She's never tried drugs recreationally before. She remembers the lovely pills the doctor gave her after the incident at the video store with Jackson sophomore year, how she may have taken a few more than recommended because it felt so good, all that fear melted and pushed to the edges of her consciousness.

Curiosity tugs at her navel. "You sure you don't want to do it with Scott?"

"I'm not gonna waste it on Scott," Stiles says in exasperation. "He's a werewolf, it takes a full handle just to get him drunk for an hour."

"Yeah," she says, surprising herself. "Okay. Yeah, I want to try it."

They bring a lighter and two bottles of water out to the little deck and sit in the small lawn chairs crammed between the sliding glass door and the railing. Stiles lights up first, the end of the joint hissing as he sucks on it, and exhales a plume of smoke that turns into a ferocious cough.

"Jesus," Stiles gasps, handing the burning joint to her, guzzling down half his bottle of water.

She puts the joint between her lips and sucks on it, her mouth filling with sweet buttery smoke.

"Hold it in!" Stiles chants. "Hold it hold it hold it-"

She exhales with a sharp cough, lightheaded. They pass it back and forth a few times, until her head starts to buzz and she leans back against the chair, struck by the way the city lights glow and twinkle below them, out to the Presido and the bay.

"Oh," Stiles says heavily. "Well this is interesting."

She turns her head and smiles; she feels liquid-loose, soft and melting against the fabric of her chair. "Thoughts?"

"I don't think I have any," Stiles says, and starts to laugh, this high giggle that is totally not sexy but completely contagious. "This is the shit."

"I feel warm," she notes. "Like-like honey."

Stiles licks his lips and Lydia feels something deep in her stomach clench. "Bet you taste like it."

"Stiles." Her mind wanders, imagines Stiles and his obscene tongue licking between her legs.

"Sorry, I'm kinda- I'm kinda fucked up, Lyds."

"It's okay." She stretches out her legs so they fall over his lap. "Me too."

Stiles' hands find her thighs and heat sinks into her muscles, right through her legging. "Do you feel good?"

"Mm," she sighs. "This was a great idea."

Stiles giggles. "This is awesome."

"This is so nice," she sighs. "Just-to relax. We could never do this at home."

"No," Stiles agrees, his voice sounding sad. "I used to-used to think I was gonna have a heart attack sometimes. Like one day I wouldn't be able to do it anymore."

"Were you sad?" she asks. "At home?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Me too," she says softly."

"Hey, hey, Lyds, I have a question."

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember-that night when I found you in your car, in the parking lot sophomore year? And you were crying?"

"Yeah?"

Stiles traces patterns over her thighs. "Why were you crying?"

"It doesn't matter." When she thinks of it now it feels like a nightmare, hazy and unreal.

"It matters to me," Stiles says, so sweetly.

"Okay. It was Peter." Her voice sounds thick with smoke. "I didn't know it yet but it was him. He was in my head. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what. I thought I was losing my mind."

Stiles' fingers brush up and down the insides of her thighs and she has to stop herself from involuntarily rolling her hips. He's watching her, eyes shining in the darkness.

"I punched a mirror once," she remembers. "In my sleep. I woke up and blood was all over my hands, in the sheets."

"You never told me that."

"My mom came running into my room. She just kept screaming, _what did you do?_ Over and over again, w _hat did you do, Lydia, what did you do?_ "

"Lydia," Stiles murmurs.

"I never want to feel like that again," she says. "Out of control. Like there was something inside me."

Something flickers across his face, something she doesn't like. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice a little hoarse. "I wanted to stay there with you that night, I really did, Lydia."

"So what happened?" she asks. "I know you would've come back if you could."

"Oh man." To her surprise Stiles starts to laugh. "That was a crazy night."

"Tell me," she urges. "I want to know."

"Okay," Stiles agrees amiably. It's the joint, she thinks, melting the tension in their very neurons, loosening their tongues, pulling out their confessions. "So we knew there was a kanima but we didn't know anything about it yet. That's why we needed the bestiary."

Lydia wrinkles her noise. "Please tell me this isn't a Gerard story."

"Not really. We were trying to get a copy of the bestiary but we hadn't figured out where it was her. Allison stole the keys to his office, when I found you I was just going to take a look around and then come back to you."

"So what happened."

"Derek happened. He was trying to figure out who the kanima was, he wanted to know what we knew. He sent Erica to get me, she dragged me to the freaking pool. And then he showed up."

"Jackson?"

"We didn't know it was him yet. He paralyzed Derek and the dude fell right into the freaking pool."

" _No_."

"Yep. I spent two hours holding him above water."

"You're kidding."

Stiles snorts. "In retrospect it was kinda hilarious. You know, except for the giant lizard stalking us."

"He didn't know," Lydia says softly, because some soft weakened part of herself still wants to defend Jackson. "He didn't even know it was him."

"I know." Stiles smacks his lips together. "I'm hungry, are you hungry?"

She starts laughing, she doesn't even know why but suddenly this all seems supremely funny. "Do you have the munchies?"

Stiles' face lights up. "We have ice cream."

Lydia grins. "Hell yes."

Stiles produces a carton of strawberry ice cream from the freezer and they sit right there on the floor with two spoons. It's perfect, cool and creamy in her mouth, and somehow better than regular ice cream, sweeter, a full sensory experience.

"Oh my god," Stiles moans. "This is-fuck. Transcendental."

"Spiritual," Lydia agrees.

"Celestial."

"Divine."

"Wet."

"Stiles!"

Stiles licks his spoon clean. "Best ice cream ever."

"This was the best idea," she says happily, high and sated and giddy. "You know I'm starting to think you're almost as smart as I am."

Stiles waggled his eyebrows. "High praise."

"You have ice cream all over your chin," Lydia giggles.

He gives her a cocky grin that goes right to her core. "So lick it off."

She crawls to him, just because, watching his mouth fall open, to climb into his lap, the open ice cream container cold against her thigh. She licks under his bottom lip, sticky and sweet. Traces over his closed mouth, lapping up ice cream like a kitten, her eyes drifting shut.

Stiles breathes shallowly under her, his hands creeping up her back, and she slides her tongue into his mouth when he parts his lips.

"Lydia," he groans. "You taste so good."

"It's the ice cream," she whispers.

"So sweet," he mumbles. She latches onto his throat and he groans, she plants sticky kisses over his skin and Stiles squeezes her waist.

He tips her chin up to kiss her again and one of them slips, Stiles slides sideways to regains his balance and the ice cream tip over onto their legs, half melted and dripping, and when Scott walks in five minutes later they're still on the floor, smearing ice cream all over each other and laughing hysterically.

Scott stops short in the middle of the kitchen, looking absolutely baffled. "You guys, what the hell? What are you-" He wrinkles his nose, sniffing. "Oh my god are you guys _high_? Seriously?"

"Don't blame me," Lydia says innocently, and falls back against Stiles in peals of laughter.

"Unbelievable!" Scott exclaims. "I'm not cleaning this up."

Lydia just laughs and laughs, while Stiles wipes actual tears from his face and passes his spoon to Scott. "C'mon buddy, don't give me that face. You look like Derek."

"Do not." Scott glares at Stiles.

"You kind of do right now," Lydia says unhelpfully, which sets her and Stiles off all over again.

"Oh fuck it," Scott finally says when they calm down, and plops down next to them. "Pass the ice cream."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I own nothing, please R &R ;)**

By Friday afternoon Lydia has burned out on boy time (she loves Scott and Stiles but there's only so much xbox she can handle) and finds a nail salon within walking distance of their apartment and makes her escape.

She's settled into a chair for a pedicure when two girls around her age walk in clutching cups of frozen yogurt and giggling loudly. One of them has beautiful mahogany colored skin that reminds Lydia of Braeden and her friend has a sheet of shiny black hair down to her waist, long legs in frayed denim shorts.

She watches as the girls are led to chairs next to hers. One of them is texting rapidly with one hand, her friend is clutching two bottles of nail polish and peering over her shoulder to read her texts, laughing something _about hot Josh, get it girl, get that dick, and they dissolve in shrieks of laughter.  
_  
The ache hits her so hard and fast she almost doubles over, one hand curling into a fist and pressed against her stuttering heart. She and Alli never did this. Allison didn't care much about her nails, no point when she would've just messed a manicure up because her hands were made to notch arrows, make bullets, save Lydia even when _she told her not to_.

"Hey you." A sharp slap against her ankle pulls Lydia out of her grief, the lovely moon-faced pedicurist who looks about fourteen is staring up at her. "You okay? You shaking."

"I'm sorry," Lydia whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm fine."

The girl squeezes her ankle. "Relax, pretty girl. Can no work like this."

"Sorry," she whispers again, mortified. "I'm so sorry."

 _I'm so sorry, Allison_.

Before Lydia can stop herself she whips out her phone and texts a number she hasn't used since she left for Stanford, and before she can regret it her phone buzzes with a response.

"See?" The pedicurist gives her a crooked smile. "Much better like this. You relax now."

She hugs Lydia when she finishes and squeezes her shoulder. Lydia tips her 50%.

/

When Lydia gets to Kusakabe, an upscale Japanese restaurant in the financial district, Kira's already there waiting for her looking more grown up than Lydia remembers in a black silk jumpsuit and chunky gold jewelry.

"Oh my god," Kira squeals, jumping up from the bench where she was waiting next to hostess stand. "It's so good to see you!"

"You too," Lydia says, feeling a wave of relief when she realizes it's the truth. "You look great."

"Stop it," Kira says, a glimpse of her old shyness sneaking in. "You always look great."

Lydia offers Kira her arm and she giggles, linking elbows with her. "Shall we?"

They follow the hostess to a small table across from the sushi bar, the restaurant full of business men in expensive suits and beautiful women in cocktail dresses.

"This is so nice," Kira says, looking a little wide-eyed as she sits down.

Lydia shrugs. "I thought the east side would be easier for you."

Kira flushes. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not." Lydia sweeps her hair off her shoulder. "You eat sushi right?"

"Yeah," Kira says, but a look flickers across her face that makes Lydia nervous, like she's made some sort of unintentional faux pas.

"Are you sure? We can go somewhere else, I really don't mind."

"Oh no, it's not that." Kira laughs and gives her a crooked smile. "It just, um. Reminds me of Scott, actually."

Lydia stares at her. "Please tell me sushi isn't a euphemism for-"

"Oh god no!" Kira's cheeks flame bright pink. "No, no, nothing like that. It's just, we had sushi the first time we had dinner together."

"Scott McCall took you out for sushi on your first date?" Lydia raises a doubtful eyebrow.

"No." Kira shakes her head, laughing. "It was-kind of terrible, actually. My dad invited him. I wasn't really...I hadn't made any friends yet. My dad made sushi for us. He didn't even tell me Scott was coming over until he showed up. It was so embarrassing."

"That's awful," Lydia commiserates.

Kira sighs, flicking open her menu. "That's my dad."

Lydia nods and follows Kira's lead, skimming her own menu. She's secretly jealous through, Mr. Yakimura is nothing like her own father; warm, involved, if maybe a bit meddling.

"Scott didn't even know how to use his chopsticks." Kira has a fond smile on her face. "The poor guy put all the wasabi in his mouth. He thought it was guacamole."

Lydia laughs, imagining Scott's face at that. "Sounds about right."

Their waitress comes and they order fancy sake cocktails with Lydia's ID, miso soup, spicy tuna rolls, and a dragon roll to share. Kira chats idly about her classes, her roommate who had apparently only showed _twice_ since the semester started while Lydia makes a horrified face.

They manage to make it through most of the dinner before Kira asks the question Lydia has been bracing herself for ever since she texted Kira from the nail salon.

"So how are you? Scott said you were having, um...some problems. With your powers." Her voice drops low on the second sentence.

"We're working on it," Lydia answers vaguely. "I'm taking the semester off."

"Sure," Kira says sympathetically. "So you're staying..."

"With Scott and Stiles."

"So are you and Stiles, like..." Kira wiggles an eyebrow.

"I don't know," Lydia realizes. "I think so? We haven't really talked about it but..." She leans in, because why not, might as well relish in the girl talk while she can. "He told me he loves me."

"Of course he does," Kira says kindly. "You and Stiles-you guys just make sense, you know?"

Lydia thinks about tethers, fate, Stiles coming back for her because he always comes back for her, waited patiently for her to realize what he always knew. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Kira sips her sake, picking apart a tuna roll with her chopsticks. "How's Scott?"

"He's okay," Lydia says cautiously. "He said you guys were taking a break?"

Kira sighs. "Yeah. It's just been hard, I guess."

Lydia frowns. "What do you mean?"

"It's just-you know, when we moved to Beacon Hills I wasn't looking for a boyfriend. I just wanted to make a few friends. Fit in. I didn't even know what I was then. And then Barrow happened, and...Scott was so amazing, you know? He made me feel like - like it was okay. He didn't think that I was like, this _monster_ -"

"Kira, you're not-"

"I know." Kira's eyes look glassy. "It's just - god, everything was so crazy, all the time. I don't think either of us really even thought about - like, would we have even been together if things had been normal? If _we_ were normal?"

"But we're not," Lydia says, only a little bitter. "We're not normal."

"I know." Kira blinks and swipes a finger under her eye to catch an eyelash. "But now we're in college and I guess I just...wanted us to be sure, you know? Have some time to figure out who we are apart from all that stuff. Figure out what we really want."

Lydia swirls her cocktail around with one hand. "Do you still love him?"

"Of course I love him," Kira says immediately, her face serious. "He's _Scott_."

Lydia nods. She knows what Kira means. Scott's easy to love. "He's not seeing anyone," she says casually. "Just so you know."

Kira shrugs, eyes staring down at her food. "He can if he wants to."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Seeing someone."

Kira snorts. "Please. Me? The girl who can't even walk five steps without tripping or dropping something? And let's not get started on the whole _I'm a kitsune_ thing. I don't know what he even saw in me."

Lydia reaches over the table and covers Kira's hand with her own. "I think he saw someone a lot like him."

Kira curls her fingers over Lydia's hesitantly, like she's a little afraid to touch her but wants it all the same. "What do you mean?"

"You're both good," Lydia tells her. "You care a lot. You want to do the right thing. You're loyal. You helped us junior year even though you barely knew us."

Kira shrugs uncomfortably. "You guys saved me when Barrow took me."

"And you didn't owe us anything," Lydia says firmly. "You've always been there to help us, because that's the kind of person you are."

Kira squeezes her hand. "I really missed you."

Lydia squeezes back, swallowing the lump in her throat. Kira and Allison were never really friends, didn't have a chance to become close, but she likes to think Allison would've accepted her, let her in the way she did Lydia. "I missed you too."

Kira hugs Lydia for a long time outside the restaurant when they're finished with dinner. "This was really great," Kira says. "Maybe we could hang out again? I mean, if you want to."

"I'd love that," Lydia assures her. "Look, I'm sorry I've been out of touch."

"It's okay."

"No." Lydia shakes her head. "We're friends. I should've called you when I got to San Francisco."

"It's okay," Kira says again, gently. "Really, I understand."

"Still. We're pack, right?"

Kira's face splits into a hopeful grin. "Yeah?"

"Yes. So, you and me, next weekend. Shopping, okay?"

"Perfect." Kira pulls her phone out to call an Uber. "Hey, speaking of pack, you haven't heard from Malia, have you?"

"No. Her dad came up with her when she started school, right?"

Kira frowns. "I don't think so. I called her a few times but I never heard back."

Lydia bites her lip. "You think we should be worried?"

Kira looks uncertain. "I'm sure Malia can take care of herself but... I feel like it's kind of our job to check up on her, you know?"

Lydia sighs, nodding her head in agreement. "I'll talk to Stiles about it."

"Thanks. Oh, I think that's my car." Kira gives Lydia another quick hug. "I'll talk to you soon?"

"I'll make an itinerary."

Kira's brow wrinkles. "Huh?"

Lydia grins. "I take shopping very seriously."

Kira smiles back easily. "Okay. Hey, um...tell Scott I say hi, okay?"

"That all?"

Kira flushes. "For now."

Lydia waves as Kira's car pulls away, and a few minutes later her own Uber pulls up and drives her back west across the city. It's dark out, the moon glowing full and fat in the sky as Lydia lets herself into Scott and Stiles' building.

At first she thinks they aren't home because it's silent in the living room, but when she walks into the dark kitchen she can see Scott and Stiles out on the deck. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder facing the distant view of the Presido and Scott has his head bowed, Stiles' right hand spread flat across Scott's back.

The light of the full moon spills across the floor and Lydia follows it to the sliding glass doors, hesitating, thinking maybe this is something she isn't a part of. She still feels like an interloper sometimes with them, their friendship a shifting complex maze of inside jokes and comic book references and childhood memories she doesn't share.

Tries to imagine what it would be like to have that, someone who's known and loved every version of her, to be so close to someone you share everything: clothes, secrets, nightmares, to be a part of something bigger than the sum of its parts.

Scott must hear her though; at the slightest touch of her palm on the glass his head snaps up, eyes glowing red, before dropping back down, shoulders all hunched over. Stiles twists back to see what Scott was looking at and his face softens when he sees her, beckons with a curl of his fingers and mouths, _come out_.

"Hey," she says softly, stepping out on the deck and closing the door behind her, trying to be quiet when Scott jumps at the sound of her heels against the cement floor. "Everything okay?"

"We're good," Stiles says, his hand rubbing back and forth between Scott's shoulder blades. "Everything's good. We're just two bros, enjoying a beautiful view together in a totally heterosexual way, right buddy?"

Scott growls, his hands clenching into fists by his sides.

"Use your words, Scotty," Stiles admonishes.

"Fuck you, Stiles."

"There he is!" Stiles says cheerfully, patting the edge of his chair for Lydia to perch on.

"Is he okay?" she asks, because Scott has his eyes squeezed shut, tiny tremors running down his arms.

"First full moon since Kira dumped him," Stiles says conversationally.

"She didn't dump me!" Scott says hotly. "We're taking a break!"

"Okay," Stiles says mildly.

"It's different," Scott says petulantly, kicking at the pavement.

"Alright," Stiles says, sliding his hand up to squeeze Scott's neck. "It's okay, just chill dude."

"I'm trying," Scott grits out.

"Scott, what's your anchor?" Lydia asks curiously.

Stiles starts to laugh. "Oh you're going to love this. Scott is his own anchor."

"Really?" Lydia asks in surprise.

Scott huffs out a sharp breath, like it hurts. "It used to be Allison but after we broke up that didn't work anymore."

"So now you're your anchor?"

"Can you believe it, god Scott, who knew you such a little narcissistic?" Stiles teases.

"No, that's actually a really good idea," Lydia realizes. "You can never lose your anchor if _you're_ your own anchor."

Scott finally lifts his head and when his eyes open they're flickering between red and brown. "It was my mom's idea."

Stiles nods. "Never doubt the genius of Melissa McCall."

Scott sighs and tips his head back against Stiles' palm. "Sorry I was being a dick."

Stiles scratches at Scott's hairline like he's a dog and she raises an eyebrow at Stiles, who gives her a helpless smile. "What, he likes it."

"If you make a dog joke I'll fucking punch you," Scott kind of slurs out, flexing his fingers. There are claw marks on his palms.

"Down boy," Stiles murmurs, and ducks, laughing, when Scott pretends to cold cock him and puts him a loose headlock instead, Scott's face pressed into Stiles chest with his arms slung around his neck.

"Love you, idiot," Scott mumbles, sniffing Stiles' tee shirt and rubbing his nose all over Stiles' collar.

"Oh buddy, this one is really hitting you," Stiles says sympathetically, reaching up to unwind Scott's arms from his neck and opening his left arm for Lydia to slide under it, curling up next to Scott so they're each under one of Stiles' arms.

Scott turns his cheek to her, his eyelids fluttering as he sniffs in her direction. "Why do you smell like Kira?"

Lydia winces. "I met her for dinner."

Scott opens his eyes for real but they stay brown this time. "You did?"

"Is that okay?" Lydia asks carefully.

"She can do what she wants," he mutters. "Did she ask about me?"

"Yeah." Lydia reaches up to card her fingers through Scott's hair. "She says hi."

"Is she seeing anyone?" he asks, like he's almost too afraid to really want the answer. Lydia traces circles across his scalp with her nails and Scott blinks heavily like he might fall asleep right here.

"No," she says lightly. "Definitely not."

"See?" Stiles' pats Scott's back. "Everything's good. Just chill, dude."

"I'm _fine_." Scott makes a little helpless noise and tips his head forward to bury it in Lydia's shoulder. "See, I told you I didn't need to be chained up."

"Kinky," Lydia teases.

Stiles grins down at her and winks. "You know me. Prepared for anything."

She purses her lips at him. "Good to know."

Scott groans against her skin. "Do you guys have to flirt _right now_?"

/

Lydia wakes up in the darkness of Stiles' bedroom, skin slick with sweat and stretched too tight, her hair stuck to the back of her neck. She pants out a breath, kicks the blanket off her body but it does nothing to lessen the sensation that she's burning up inside, veins flooding with a strange pulsing heat. Next to her Stiles is stretched out on his stomach in only boxer briefs, face pressed into the pillow, asleep.

She reaches out and pokes him in the ribs, twice. "Wassa matter," he mumbles, not even opening his eyes.

"Stiles, wake up."

He whines into his pillow. "No."

"Stiles, something's wrong, wake up!"

His head snaps up at that, blinking fuzzily at her. "Should I get Scott?"

"No." Lydia shakes her head, shivering as heat curls its way up her spine.

"Do you have a headache?" Stiles pulls himself up on his elbows, eyes bleary in the shaft of moonlight coming in through the window.

"I'm too hot," she complains, pulling her thin cotton tee shirt up above her hips.

"Lydia, does anything hurt?"

"No, I'm just hot. I'm too hot, it doesn't feel right."

"Okay, hold on." He swings out of bed and she watches him cross his room, the broad lines of his shoulders moving as he reaches for something in his desk drawer and comes back to the bed, sitting cross legged and pulling her up to sit back against the pillows.

"Open," Stiles commands softly, and when she parts her lips he slides a thermometer under her tongue.

She breathes through her nose, watching Stiles watch her until it beeps, and Stiles takes it back, squinting to read the numbers.

"Huh," he says, frowning.

"What?"

"You have a bit of a fever."

"How high?"

"Not that bad. Ninety-nine point seven."

"I'm hot," she complains, writhing back against the pillows uncomfortably.

He reaches out and lays the back of his hand against her chest. "Oh wow, yeah, you are. Do you feel like...like normal sick or-"

"No," she whines. "I don't like it. Make it stop."

"Lydia-"

"You said it's energy, right? It's too much energy?"

"It's a theory," he corrects.

She licks at her lips with a dry tongue, pushing into the coolness of his hand, trying to find some relief. "So what's your hypothesis?"

Stiles stretches out next to her on the bed. "Your powers are stronger now. When they kick in a lot of energy gets charged up in your body to fuel it. You overheat."

"Okay." She lets her head fall forward onto his chest and moans when her cheek comes into contact with his skin. "So how do we...how do we get it to stop?"

"Are you sure your head doesn't hurt?" he whispers.

"No, I'm just really hot. Too hot."

"Hmm." Stiles sighs above her head. "Okay, so maybe that's like, first stage. Like your powers are warming up or something. You don't feel like you're going to scream, right?"

She shakes her head, shifting her weight around on the mattress.

"Okay. Well we could try dropping your body temperature with an ice pack or something but I don't know if an external modality would work as well as something internal."

The heat must be affecting her brain because all she can do is stare at him like he's talking nonsense. "Huh?"

"Maybe we could find a way to get your body to release the energy," he muses. "Hey, what does it feel like?"

She glares at him. "Hot."

He chuckles lightly, fingers tapping under her collarbone. "Can you be more specific?"

"Okay." Her spine arches seemingly on its own and she whines, hand groping out and curling around Stiles' wrist. "You know that feeling right before you come? When every molecule of your body is tingling and it feels like you're whole body's on fire? Like it starts at your toes and builds and builds until every part of you is shaking with it?"

Stiles is gaping at her. "You feel like you're about to have an orgasm?"

"It's an analogy, stupid."

He walks his fingers over her shoulder, traces random patterns over the bone. "Orgasms do release a lot of energy."

Lydia shuts her eyes, focuses on the cool trail of his fingers over her shoulder while heat sparks everywhere else and allows herself to think about it, coming like that, with him. And feels her stomach contract at the thought, already wet between her thighs and suddenly wonders how they've done this, slept in the same bad every night for almost a month and managed to keep their hands off each other.

She swallows hard and blinks up at him. "You want to try it?"

Stiles gapes at her. "What?"

She flutters her eyelashes at him. "Test your theory that orgasm is a proper energy release."

"You cannot be serious right now," he hisses.

"Why not? It was your idea."

"Okay, I was being hypothetical Lydia, I didn't mean _literally_ fuck it out of you."

She goes boneless against him, all her brain seems to register is _fuck_ and _you_ , and holy shit if she wasn't turned on before she is now. Her body has completely betrayed her, any denial she still has about wanting Stiles is pure delusion, the evidence right between her thighs.

She _wants_.

"You could," she whispers. "I want you to."

Stiles goes wide-eyed. "You don't mean that."

Heat flares at the base of her spine, licks around her hips and she actually has to grab at the sheets so she doesn't grind against him. "I really, really, do."

Stiles groans. "You can't say that kind of shit to me right now."

"Why not?"

"Because you're obviously having some kind of banshee sex fever thing!"

Lydia raises an eyebrow. " _Sex fever_?"

"I don't know! You're burning up and acting hella weird and you know how much I want you, _shit_ , but god Lydia, the first time I fuck you it won't be for an experiment, okay?"

She shivers. "Okay."

"Okay." Stiles exhales a heavy breath. "Can we just like, table the sex talk for right now? Not that I don't want to heavily analyze the fact that you said you actually want to have sex with me-"

"Is it that hard to believe?" she asks, her voice a little sharper than she intended.

Stiles blink and then his expression softens. "No, no, it's just like-I mean, four years ago you didn't even know my _name_."

"I'm not the same person I was four years ago," she defends.

"I know." Stiles drops a kiss on her forehead. "Let's just-slow down a little, okay? Just let me, let me try something."

His hands drop to the hem of her shirt. "Can I take this off?"

She raises her arms obediently for him and Stiles groans a tiny bit, peeling her shirt up and over her head so that's she left in a strapless lace bandeau bra and black cotton boy shorts.

"C'mere," Stiles murmurs, and pulls her to lie against his chest, his arms folding over her back. "How's that?"

She rests her fingers over the curve of his hipbones, lets her head fall into that perfect spot on his shoulder. "A little better."

"Hmm, okay." His hands start to move, walking down her spine into the dip of her lower back, sending tiny fireworks scattering under her skin.

She inhales hard, little pulses of pleasure mixing in with the heat and she presses her nails into his skin. Stiles' breath catches. "And that?" he asks.

"Good," she whispers. She drifts for awhile like that, torso practically glued to him, his hands sliding up and down her back while wave after wave of energy rolls through her, so hot it's almost hard to get a good breath in.

She holds onto him and breathes, tries not to fight it, let's herself melt until it's like her whole body has gone liquid, spread out over Stiles and-

"Lydia. _Lydia_." His strained voice brings her back to her body and she realizes she's wrapped her legs around his thigh, is rolling her hips against it in a rhythm she doesn't remember setting.

"Sorry," she breathes, a little panicked. "Stiles, please, just please-"

"Lydia-"

"Stiles, please, I _need_ you."

Stiles shudders and suddenly she's flat on her back and he's looming over her. "Okay," he says hoarsely. "Okay, just-just calm down. It's okay."

She whimpers and he catches her hips in those big hands, thumbs spreading out to run teasingly along the waistband of her shorts.

"Stiles." Her voice comes out sounding broken and desperate and she doesn't care, she needs this, needs him.

For the first time since she woke him up he smiles. "Don't need to fuck you to make you come, Lyds."

"Oh," she whispers, finally understanding, and is ready to lift her hips when he grasps the sides of her shorts.

"Tell me you want this," he instructs softly. "I need you to say it."

"I want you." The words spill past her lips in a rush. "Wanted you for _months_."

Something flares behind Stiles' eyes and he pinches the cotton fabric between his fingers and pulls her shorts down over her legs to leave her bare.

"Jesus," Stiles mutters, looking awestruck, kneeling between her legs.

"Stiles," she pleads.

"Yes, yeah, on it." He shakes his head like he can't focus, puts his hands on the insides of her bare thighs and pushes her legs apart so her knees fall open.

He comes down on his left elbow, legs bracketing hers and runs the fingers of his right hand up her thigh, making the muscle jump under his touch. "I need you to try and be quiet, okay? I really don't want to wake Scott up and have to explain this."

"Yeah," she breathes, trying to shift her hips closer to him, trying to get him to _fucking touch her_. "Fine, just _Jesus Christ_ would you quit stalling and touch me already?"

Stiles has the audacity to smirk at her but then he's cupping her with a whole hand and she has to swallow a guttural moan as shockwaves pulse through her body. He parts her with his fingers, exhaling hard when he feels how wet she is.

"Jesus Lyds," he mutters, and takes his hand away, but then he has two fingers in his mouth and he's _licking_ them. "Okay, now I believe you."

"Oh you fucking asshole," she starts to moan, but then those two fingers are pushing inside her, opening her up and all she can do is turn her head to the side and cry softly into his neck.

"Okay?" he murmurs, sounding a little worried.

"If you stop I'll fucking kill you," she threatens, and clamps down hard around his fingers.

Stiles chokes, his whole body shuddering over her. "Okay, message received, _holy shit_ Lydia."

He starts to stroke, fingertips curled against her and she can't help the moan that tears out of her throat. Everything narrows down to the pull of him inside her; the fire in her veins and it's like dying, like being reborn, taken apart by bone and flame and reconstructed anew.

Her hips are rolling against him, little sobs getting punched out of her chest when he drops the heel of his hand so that she can grind up into it. Somewhere there's a distant thought of fury that's he's so good at this, that someone taught him to be good at this.

And then his fingers push a little deeper and she gasps, feels fluttery cold in the very tips of her toes and she clings to him, helpless, as everything spirals, feeling like if she doesn't come soon she might literally combust.

"Stiles," she whines, everything coming down to _hot_ and _need_ and wild desperation. "Please, please, _oh god_ , Stiles."

"Hey, hey, shh. Look at me." She blinks her eyes open and he's right there, eyes shining with warmth and she feels her lungs open in relief.

"I got you," Stiles vows. "I got you, you're okay, let it go, let go Lydia."

She shakes, thighs quaking as pressure builds, arching up into him as everything begins to blur and has the presence of mind to beg, "Cover my mouth, I'm going to scream, cover my mouth," and Stiles slaps his free hand over her mouth without missing a beat.

He pushes down hard with his hand when she grinds up and that's all it takes; she comes on his fingers and bites his palm against the scream, bucking under his hand over and over until she's shivering, suddenly freezing and limp against Stiles, who pulls his fingers out of her with an obscene pop.

He cleans her off with something and lies down next to her, clearly hard in his boxers but not attempting to do anything about it. Lydia reaches out with a weak hand and Stiles lets out a dry laugh and catches her wrist in his fingers.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"You didn't come," she mumbles but he's right, she feels heavy and spent and blessedly cold against the sheets.

"Later," he assures her. "Seriously. Anytime."

"Good," she slurs, letting him tuck her bad in under the covers. "I believe in reciprocity."

Stiles laughs something back in response but she's already halfway gone, black unfurling at the edges of her consciousness, and when he curls one arm around her waist and orders her to go to sleep all she can do is gratefully comply.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Please note that rating has changed to M to reflect content. Happy Labor Day and happy reading ;)**

 _Splash_.

 _Splash_.

Lydia scans the kitchen, looking for a leaking pipe, a spilled glass of water, a running coffee pot, but there's nothing there to account for the noise, a steady splish-splash, like a heavy object being thrown into a pool.

"Lydia? Are you okay?" Stiles sidles up next to her against the kitchen counter. "You've been drying the same plate for five minutes."

"Oh." She looks down at her hands; she's holding her plate in her left hand while the right mechanically wipes a dishtowel back and forth across it. "Do you hear that?"

Stiles frowns. "Hear what?"

She tilts her head, listens to the steady sound of running water. "You really don't hear it?"

Stiles takes the plate gently from her hands and places it in the dishwater. "What do you hear?"

She leans down and examines the tap but nothing's coming out of the pipe, not a drop. "Nothing. Sorry, never mind."

"Hey." Warm hands curl around her hips and turn her around so she's facing him. "Talk to me."

Lydia leans back against the edge of the sink, spreading her legs so Stiles can step between them, gives him a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."

One of his hands comes down to the counter and the other snakes around her waist and up to the back of her neck. "You sure?"

His lips are only inches away from hers, she can see a little smear of syrup in the corner of his mouth, his hair still damp from his morning shower. Lydia likes him like this, messy and sweet and hers for the taking.

"I told you," she says slowly, enunciating each word as his eyes follow every flick and curve of her tongue as she talks. "I'm okay."

He shifts his weight a little closer and with the slightest tilt of her hips he's right up against her, the thin cotton of his sweatpants brushing her bare thighs. His eyes flick down to hers and hold contact for a second, an silent agreement being made, and all it takes is the gentle pressure of Stiles' hand on the back of her neck to bring her lips to his in a kiss. It's a slow gentle thing, soft pressure against her lips and his thumb running over her vertebrae.

Lydia sighs into the kiss; Stiles tastes like maple syrup from the pancakes he made them for breakfast and coffee, rich and bittersweet. Her tongue flicks into that corner of his mouth and licks the syrup off, pulling her lips away from his to make a show of licking her own mouth clean.

"Jesus,"Stiles breathes, his hand squeezing her neck a little, just enough to make her knees shake. "You're so - you don't even know Lydia. I just wanna - I wanna -"

The thought gets abandoned as his mouth crashes back against her, rougher than before, coaxing her mouth open so he can slide his tongue against hers, flicking and tasting and holy shit _of course_ Stiles is a genius at making out. The guy has an oral fixation like she's never seen, constantly sticking things into his mouth and sucking, his tongue curling obscenely around pens and straws and Red Vines.

She plunges her fingers into his hair and _pulls_ , and Stiles gasps sharply, hips stuttering against her.

"Oh god," he groans. "Oh god, Scott's gonna be home from his study group soon."

"How much time do we have?"

Stiles glances down at his phone on the counter and pouts. "Twelve minutes if he walks slow."

Lydia grins slyly. "I can work with that." She holds up one of her hands to him, palm out, while using her free hand to pull his sweatpants down over his hips. "Lick."

Stiles' eyes go comically wide. "Seriously?"

"Last night you said anytime," she reminds him casually. "But if you don't-"

"Nope, no, I said anytime, I definitely said anytime," he says in a rush, and licks from the bottom of her palm up to her middle finger, swirling his tongue around the tip with an impish look on his face.

"Oh you think you're just so _cute,_ " she mocks, and sticks her hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs to wrap her hand around him.

"Holy shit, holy _shit_ ," he blurts out, rocking into her hand, perfectly hard for her already.

Lydia pulls out all her best tricks, plays with her grip, pulling him hard and then soft, twisting her hand over the head and sliding back to the base as Stiles pants, staring down at him in her hand like he can't believe she's even touching him, let alone jacking him off in their kitchen at eleven in the morning.

Stiles moans pitifully. "This is gonna be over so fast."

"Kind of the point," she reminds him, her hand falling into a steady rhythm of _glide, twist, pump._

"Wanted to impress you," he admits sheepishly, his hands clutching at her shoulders, her waist, constantly moving to the rhythm of the drag of her hand.

"You've already impressed me," she murmurs, and turns her head to kiss his jaw. "I don't need you to do anything okay? Just enjoy."

She says it because she doesn't want to be like that, not with Stiles, some haughty girl on a pedestal allowing him to attempt to prove his worth. She remembers what it was like with Jackson and then Aiden; always a challenge, a duel for power.

But she's not that girl anymore.

She wants this: sleepy morning sex, sunlight coming in through the windows and drenching her skin, the warmth of Stiles' familiar body curved over her, the feel of him heavy and full in her hand.

"Lydia," he chokes out, his head dropping to her shoulder. "Fuck, you feel so good."

Her free hand curves around his hip, fingers teasing around that shallow contoured dip of muscle. "Of course it feels good," she says softly. "It's you and me."

"Do you remember..." Stiles sounds wrecked, his wet mouth pressed against her collarbone. "What I said...at the rink? We went-"

"Skating," she murmurs. "And you said, sometimes things that you wouldn't think would be a good combination end up being a perfect combination."

"Like two people," he grits out. He starts to shiver a little, breath hot against her skin.

"Like you and I," she whispers. "Perfect."

"Oh my _god_ ," Stiles gasps, does a full body shudder and spills over her fist.

Lydia reaches behind herself and finds a hand towel, uses it to clean Stiles off while he recovers, breathing against her neck, shell shocked.

And then he glances down at his phone and jumps, looking horrified. "Four minutes! We have four minutes! Oh my god, Scott is going to kill us!"

Stiles runs around the apartment throwing open all the windows while Lydia scrubs her hands with hot water and soap, and if Scott can smell it when he comes home three minutes later he either doesn't notice or he's too polite to say anything.

/

Lydia gets called into the coffee shop to work an emergency closing shift that afternoon; one of their baristas has the flu and the computer system crashed. She spends her entire shift behind the register doing all the math by hand, a slow steady ache developing in the back of her neck as she bends over the counter, pencil flying over a pad of paper, feeling the heat of her customers' glares on the back of her neck as they wait for her to write down all their credit card information so she can run their bill.

Everything sounds louder than usual, the hiss of the coffeemaker ringing in her ears, jumping every time she hears water hit the basin of the sink. She feels twitchy, which bothers her because she's always been able to focus, especially when all she's doing is rudimentary math.

Stiles texts her when she's on the last hour of her shift, he's picking up Thai for dinner from a little hole in the wall place a few blocks away from the coffee shop and wants to know what she wants. She texts him back under the counter and they agree to meet there when she's done Lydia's never been so relieved to leave at the end of her shift, all the sounds are grating at her: chairs being flipped over, dishes clanking in trays as they get bussed, all that splashing water.

The temperature has dropped now that the sun's gone down. Lydia pauses on the sidewalk to button her cardigan, regretting not bringing a jacket. The temperature shift in San Francisco is a little more extreme than Beacon Hills and she feels a momentary longing for her old green pea coat, abandoned in her mother's coat closet when she left for Stanford.

She turns hard left in the direction of the Thai place to meet Stiles and the heel of her ankle boot sinks into mud, sending her flying off balance and hissing in irritation. She finally gets her boot unstuck and squints in the darkness, when did it get so dark?

She turns in a slow circle, the rushing in her ears reaching a fever pitch.

Trees, trees, everywhere. A light mist of fog obscuring everything, like she's been dropped into a shadow world, very quiet except for the wind against the leaves, branches crackling, and far away but definitely distinct - water.

Lydia's in the Presido.

For a moment she just stands there, shocked, heart hammering in her chest as she tries to breathe. And then her hands fly to her purse, _thank god_ , her phone is right there in the inside pocket. She pulls it out and swears out loud.

No signal.

She has seven panicked texts from Scott and Stiles combined and fourteen missed calls.

It's 4:42 am.

"Okay," she whispers to herself. "Okay. What do you do when you get lost in a forest?"

Follow the sun. Find a body of water. Listen for the sound of cars.

All she can hear is water but she can't figure out which direction it's coming from.

Her throat tightens with the threat of unshed tears. She knows Scott and Stiles must be looking for her but the Presido is huge and she realizes her boots and calves are soaked in mud and the hem of her dress is wet. If she walked through water it'll be harder for Scott to track her scent.

She closes her eyes against the sensation of vertigo, breathe shallowly through her nose. _Help_ , she thinks desperately. _Please, help_.

Her eyes snap open when she hears the noise, something whistling through the air, and turns her head to see an arrow embedded in the trunk of a tree only a few inches to her right.

Lydia turns her head slowly, following the trajectory of the arrow and stands very still, afraid to move or blink when she sees it, a vision, maybe one hundred yards away:

A girl, with long dark hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders, leather riding boots, a bow slung over her shoulder.

Lydia's tears spill over and she wipes them away with a shaking hand. "Allison?"

Allison jerks her head in the direction of some trees and starts to walk, quickly blurring into the fog.

"Wait!" Lydia takes off running, refusing to take her eyes off the other girl's back. "Allison, wait!"

Lydia follows after her, slipping in the damp earth to keep up with Allison. She doesn't look back at Lydia, marching between trees at a clipped pace and forcing Lydia to chase after her.

Lydia's freezing, wind making her eyes tear up and her ears ache as she runs. The toe of her boot catches on a root of a tree and she goes flying, landing on her hands and knees in the dirt. Lydia scrambles back up, ignoring the pain so she doesn't lose Allison, who's fifty paces away and waiting for Lydia to start walking again, her face as pale and mysterious as the moon.

She doesn't let Lydia catch up to her but she doesn't drift away either. She marches them through the trees with all the confidence of an Argent: head held high, spine straight, cool dispassionate glances back at Lydia to make sure she's still behind her.

They walk and they walk and Allison never says a word, the only sounds Lydia hears are the chitter of birds, the dirt squishing beneath her boots and closer and closer, water.

Allison gets to a break in the tree line and waits. Lydia hurries to meet her, feeling a strain in the back of her throat and her chest, tripping over rocks and brambles to reach Allison, who's watching her calmly, a silent guide, and when Lydia finally catches up Allison steps a few paces forward, and turns back and actually _winks_.

They've reached the ocean.

The heels of Lydia's boots sink into cool damp sand, the water almost black in the early pre-dawn light. Down the beach to her right is the Golden Gate Bridge and hope rises within her like a balloon; Allison has brought her to a landmark, a safe base.

She turns her head to thank Allison but she's gone; Lydia is alone on the beach, shivering cold, eyes scanning the tree line for the ghost of her best friend. She feels nauseous, something cold and slippery in the back of her throat and then she's falling on her knees, screaming as she sees a black bag big enough to hold a body get hurled from the bridge into the water and land with a sick heavy splash.

Lydia keels over, face pressed into the wet sand.

She doesn't know how long she lays there, knees curled to her chest, grains of sand on her lips, but eventually, when the first rays of sun rise in the east and start burning up the fog, she hears the echo of her own name.

She lifts her head to see Scott burst from the tree line, running, sand flying beneath his sneakers. He skids to a stop in front of her, sinking down to his knees, looking frantic and scared.

"Are you hurt?" he demands, one of his hands skimming her shoulders, her back, her neck, her head. Injury check. "Lydia, I need you to tell me if anything hurts."

"I saw it," she croaks out. "I saw it, Scott."

Scott's hand stills on her forearm, thin black snakes of pain winding up to his shoulder. "What did you see, Lydia?"

Tears burn her eyes. "It's in the water."

His voice is very soft, like he's talking to a trauma victim. "What's in the water?"

There's the sound of another set of footprints and then Stiles's familiar wheeze as he jogs down the beach, looking pale and out of breath, tripping over his own two feet to collapse next to her and Scott.

"Are you okay?" he gasps, and chokes, turns his head to hack something up. "Oh my god, I really need to go running more so I can keep up with Scott, Jesus Lydia, if you don't start talking in the next ten seconds I cannot guarantee that I won't freak out, we've been looking for you all night, what the hell, where have you been?"

She blinks at him while Scott looks stunned, like he can't believe Stiles' ability to string that many consecutive sentences together with just one breath.

She takes a breath, her lungs burning as they fill with cold air, and uses Scott's hand on her arm to leverage herself to sit up. "There's a body bag in the water."

Stiles blinks very quickly at her. "There's a body bag in the water?"

She nods and it's enough to throw off her equilibrium, sending her tipping over into Scott, who curls his arms protectively around her. "I saw it get thrown over the bridge."

Scott's rubbing both of her arms and it kind of hurts, the numbness in her hands protesting. "She's really cold," he says to Stiles. "We need to leave."

Stiles blinks at them and looks out to the water, like he might be able to see the body. Lydia shudders, a few stray tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. She curls into Scott, the heat of his skin shocking under the damp fabric of her dress.

"Stiles, we need to go, now," Scott snaps. "Lydia, I'm going to carry you back to the car, okay?"

She nods in agreement, twisting her arms around so Scott can peel her sweater from her damp skin. "God you're soaking wet, did you fall in a stream or something?"

"I don't know," she mumbles, hissing when she feels him haul her up in a front piggyback, his skin so warm against hers that in burns.

They walk back into the trees, Stiles trailing a few feet behind them, on his phone to call in an anonymous tip to SFPD.

"I couldn't get a signal," she mumbles, right up against Scott's neck. "I couldn't call."

"It's okay." He sounds tired and she remembers what Stiles' said, that they've been out all night looking for her. "You just scared us."

"Me too," she admits, and lets her eyes drift shut, falls into a half sleep as Scott and Stiles walk through the Presido and back to the car.

The city is still half asleep, no traffic yet, too early, so they get home quickly, Lydia getting transferred to Stiles' arms so Scott can run ahead and unlock the door like she's a small child being passed back and forth between them. Exhaustion is pulling at her, Stiles' hands the only thing keeping her awake, guiding her into the bathroom and shutting the door behind them.

He puts her down on the edge of the bathtub, leaning over her to turn the shower on. "You need to warm up, okay? You probably have fucking hypothermia."

He never stops moving, checking the water temperature, digging through towels, unzipping the back of her dress so he can pull it over her head and toss it into the hamper, leaving her shivering in a bra and panties. His hands ghost over her hair, her bare shoulders, back into the water to test the temperature.

"Okay, I think that should be good," he assesses, threading their fingers together to pull her up. "Get in, okay?"

She eyes the falling spray, remembers how the water splashed when the body hit the surface, shame flooding her when she realizes she's been hearing it all goddamn day and didn't put it together, ignored all the signs until it was too late.

Another girl is dead.

"Hey." Stiles' voice is gentle. "Are you okay?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, looks down at her feet, her muddy legs. "I don't feel good," she whispers. "I'm so cold."

Stiles kisses her forehead and the small kindness makes her want to cry. "Get in please. It'll make you feel better, you'll feel better when you're warm, promise."

She unhooks her bra and flings it vaguely in the direction of the hamper and steps out of her panties. Stiles is looking resolutely away, cheeks flushed.

"What?" she says, managing to inject a bit of attitude into her voice. "It's not like you've never seen me naked."

"Extenuating circumstances," he mutters, but he helps her climb into the shower on shaking legs, shuts the curtain behind her.

She stands under the spray, hot water sluicing through her hair, rolling down her front and back as she breathes in the stream. Lets her tears mix in with the water because she was too late, again, because there's another girl dead in a bag and Lydia is useless, nothing but a faulty alarm system.

She can't help it when the sobs try to break free from her chest, one fisted hand pressed against her lips as the wave of her failure rains down on her. Another girl is dead because she couldn't put the pieces together, couldn't stop it in time.

All she can do is bear witness. This is who she is, this is the curse of the banshee: she lives on the cruel edge of death's knife and is condemned to watch as girls are flung over it.

A wail tears out of her throat and suddenly Stiles is right there, fully clothed in the shower, pulling her to his chest and holding her tightly against him.

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," he murmurs. "I've got you."

"I couldn't stop it," she confesses. "Stiles, I couldn't stop it, all I did was watch it go over. I just _watched_."

He's got one broad hand spread across the small of her back, the other one curled around her neck. "It's not your job to stop it."

"It's not fair," she cries. "It's not _fair_." The rage comes out of nowhere, flowing through her veins, and she wants to break something, she wants to shatter glass and smash concrete, she wants to go back in time and rip Peter's heart out of his chest because he did this to her, made her into this, and it's _not fucking fair._

She doesn't even realize that's she's hitting Stiles, weak slaps and punches uselessly glancing off him until he gets her arms pinned against her own chest, his hand tight against her wrists. All the fight goes out of her, she sags against him, spent.

"I know, Lydia," he's whispering. "I'm right here, it's okay. It's not your fault."

She fists her hands in his wet shirt, the words she used to whisper when she was locked up in Eichen coming back to her. _They're all going to die_.

"I can't do this," she whispers. "Stiles, I can't do this, I don't want to do this anymore."

"Lydia-"

"I can't, I can't, please, Stiles, I can't." She doesn't even know what she's asking of him, all she knows is that she's done, she can't do this anymore, cannot imagine the rest of her life like this.

"Okay." Stiles says quietly. "It's going to be okay."

He turns the water off, leads Lydia out of the shower and wraps her up in a thick towel before shucking off his wet clothes and drying off. He walks her to his bedroom, pulls the covers back and lays her down, slides the towel out from under her and pulls the blanket up to her chest.

She blinks heavily, watches him leave with the wet towels and come back a minute later, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Stiles crawls into the bed and there's a warm hand on her hip, urging her to roll on her side and then she feels him, curling around her from behind, blanketing her in warmth.

One of his hands drifts low on her stomach, a steady low pulse of heat, the other high on her ribs, right under the fall of her breasts.

"Go to sleep," he tells her. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

"I'm sorry." Lydia whispers. "I'm sorry I keep doing this to you."

His arms tighten around her. "Don't you ever apologize for who you are. Not to me."

Her breath hitches. "Stiles?"

He tucks her head under his chin, throws one leg over her hip to get her in a full body wrap. "Yeah Lyds?"

She feels more grounded now, the weight of him holding her down against the mattress, his body heat sinking into her skin. It's a strange feeling, like she's bottomed out, has shed every piece of her that wasn't really her: all her vanity, her pride, her cold shell, has been stripped bare until there's nothing left but skin and bone.

And her heart, insistently beating against the cage of her ribs, demanding nothing but the truth. "I'm in love with you." The words leave her mouth like a confession, hopeful butterfly wings fluttering in her chest.

He twists a little to lean over her, his face only inches away, his eyes glowing gold in the early morning light. "You don't have to say it if you-"

She reaches up to cover his lips with her index finger. "I'm saying it because it's true."

He's giving her The Look, like that time he came in to find her dying in a pool of her own blood, Kira's hands drenched and pushing down on her stomach. Like he really would go out of his mind if she left him, like every hope and dream he has is tied to the living beat of her heart.

He bends down, his lips brushing over hers in a ghost of a kiss. "You know, I was fully prepared to wait another five years for that."

"You're supposed to say you love me too," she reprimands sleepily.

He drops back down against his pillow, nosing at her hair. "I love you too. I had a plan, you know. A very extensive plan."

"A plan?" She feels a little punch drunk, tired and worn out and lit up all at once.

"To get you to love me back."

"You didn't need a plan," she murmurs. "I just wasn't ready yet."

"I know." Soft lips on the top of her head, strong arms holding her against a muscled chest. "I got good at waiting. I would've waited forever for you, you know?"

She lets her eyes fall shut, can feel sleep pulling her down into the darkness. "No more waiting."

Stiles' fingers, trailing up and down her arms, dragging her deeper under, and its so good, to let it go, to just be honest. "Okay." His voice is honey sweet and she's already half asleep, lulled by the repetitive motion of his touch. "No more waiting."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: As usual I own nothing. Happy reading ;)**

Lydia wakes up around noon, Stiles' cool sheets against her bare skin. Next to her he's starfished out on the bed, one leg dangling off the edge, fast asleep. She pads naked across the room and pulls on a clean pair of lace boy shorts and a bra, tugs an oversized soft grey sweater over her head.

In the kitchen she pours herself a cup of coffee from the almost full pot, stirs in coconut milk, and carries it out to the deck. Scott's lying in one of the chairs, wearing a Beacon Hills lacrosse team sweatshirt and a pair of lacrosse shorts, a mug in one hand and the other clutching a copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

"Hey," she says softly, closing the sliding glass door behind her. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Scott flashes her a gentle smile and looks back at his book. "Of course not."

She sits down on the deck chair and takes a sip of coffee, relishing the first taste, the impending relief of caffeine filtering into her bloodstream. It's hazy today, fog rolling off the bay. She looks down at her clean scrubbed feet. The polish is peeling, the pedicure she got the other day already partly ruined.

Scott sighs and puts Frankenstein down. "This book is seriously fucked up."

Lydia nods in agreement. "It gave me nightmares for a week in fifth grade."

"You read this in _fifth grade_?"

She shrugs. "I found it in my parents' library."

"I had a bunch of those Goosebumps books when I was a kid." Lydia wrinkles her nose and Scott laughs helplessly. "They were cool!"

"Like you knew what was cool when we were kids."

"Everyone had those books, they were totally cool!" He only sounds mildly defensive. "You're the freak who was reading Shelley in middle school."

Lydia shrugs. "I was going through my Gothic phase. Before I hit high school and it became my actual life."

"I'm already legit afraid of how smart you are, you don't need to rub it in," he teases. "My _Gothic phase_."

She looks down at the grotesque image on the cover of the book. "God, I hope things like that aren't real."

Scott looks horrified. "Oh my god, you think?"

She sighs. "Who knows? It's probably better not to think about it."

"Yeah." Scott leans over to clink their mugs together. "You doing okay after last night?"

The question doesn't surprise her but she still flinches. "I'm fine, Scott."

"You sure?"

"Maybe a little tired," she admits.

He tips his head back against the chair. "Yeah, I feel you."

"Thank you for getting me," she says softly. "Again."

"You don't have to thank me," he says nicely. "We would never - I mean, c'mon Lydia, of course I'll always get you. We'll always come for you."

"I know." She thinks about Stiles running across the lacrosse field, Lydia, run! The note she wrote for Allison, _don't find me_ , but they came for her anyway, and Allison was stabbed by an Oni for her trouble. "Maybe you shouldn't."

Scott's hand closes around her wrist. "Lydia, please don't say that."

"Sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

He nods carefully but doesn't let go of her. "Okay."

"Scott."

"Yeah?"

She stares out over the city, the hazy view of the distant Presido. "I saw Allison."

His head turns sharply to look at her. "Again?"

"In the woods. I didn't have a signal and I was totally lost. I was in the middle of the trees, I didn't know which way to go. And then she just...appeared. She showed me the way to the beach."

Scott looks out at the water. "It's funny. She's gone but she always finds a way to save us, doesn't she?"

"That's Allison," Lydia says softly.

"Yeah," he agrees. "That's Allison."

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"Sure."

"What did she mean when she said that it was okay?"

She watches Scott out of the corner of her eye. A muscle in his jaw jumps, fingers tightening just a bit around her wrist.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I shouldn't have asked that, you don't have to tell me."

"No, it's okay," he says quietly. "Sorry. It's just kind of hard to talk about."

She can almost taste the salt in the air. Tries to forget about the third body, probably in the morgue right now. The way Allison just vaporized. "We don't talk about her enough."

"That's because it hurts to talk about."

She flips her arm over and Scott slides his palm down the inside of her arm and curls his fingers around hers. "Maybe if we talked about her more it would hurt less."

Scott looks unconvinced. "Yeah, maybe." He takes a sip of coffee and sets the mug down by his feet. "I talk to her, though. Like, all the time."

Lydia cradles her mug with her free hand. "Me too."

"Sometimes," Scott says, his voice tight and vulnerable. "When I'm having a hard time with something, I talk to her about it. I try to imagine what she'd say to me. What she'd tell me to do. I have entire imaginary conversations with my dead ex-girlfriend."

"I went to the nail salon on Friday," she says, the memory close enough to still be visceral, an ache deep under her ribs. She hunches over, clutching her mug. "These two girls walked in. You could tell they were best friends. The way you can just tell with some people, you know? They were laughing and hanging all over each other."

"They looked happy," Scott surmises.

"I'll never get that." It doesn't come out bitter, just sad. "I thought- I'd never had that before her. A best friend. I thought we were going to get late night ice cream runs, and road trips, and shopping for dorm room decorations. I thought we'd get this whole _life_."

Scott blinks and a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye. "You thought you were going to have forever."

She sniffs very delicately, lest she start crying too, which she knows will just set Scott off. Scott understands perfectly, of course he does. They may have been broken up when Allison died but Scott thought he had forever too.

"Kira and I talked about breaking up before we even left for school," he says.

Lydia frowns. "Kira didn't say anything about that."

"That's because we didn't end up breaking up. At least, not then. But yeah, we sat down in her living room and had this really long talk about going to school, and what we both wanted, and how we thought college would affect our relationship. We thought we were like, so mature, you know? Having this serious, grown up conversation. We were so proud of ourselves. And then I went home, and all I could think about, for hours, was that I should have been having that conversation with Allison."

"Oh Scott " she sighs.

"So I started talking to her," he continues. "I know...I know we were broken up and I know she would want me to be..." Scott shudders with his whole body and hangs his head in his hand.

"She'd want you to be happy." Lydia finishes the sentence for him.

"I asked her to give me a sign." Scott turns his head and wipes his face in his shirt.

"A what?"

"A sign that it was okay. Okay that I was moving on. That I was doing the right thing."

Their eyes catch and Lydia chokes on a sob, remembering Allison holding her in the hospital bed in the Stanford psych unit, promising that everything would be okay.

 _Tell him I'm proud of him...that I said it was okay.  
_  
Lydia takes a deep breath and leans into the familiar comfort of his body, closes her eyes. They breathe together, quiet, the familiar buzz of the city a soft white noise around them, until she feels like she can talk with crying.

"Hey Scott," she whispers. "Want to hear a story?"

"An Allison story?"

"Mm-hm."

"Yeah," he sniffs. "I'd like that."

"Remember the night we found out Jackson was the Kanima?"

Scott looks a little suspicious at that, like she's going to tell him something he doesn't want to hear. "Yeah."

"Allison drove me home. I was completely freaking out at her - because none of you would tell me what the hell was going on - but Allison was totally freaked, worse than me. She kept trying to tell me that I couldn't tell anyone and I was all, _I don't even know what I saw, what could I say_ -"

"Um, is this actually going somewhere?" Scott interrupts, sounding dubious.

"Patience," she reprimands. "I'm setting the tone."

Scott lets out a choked laugh and nods. "Sorry, continue."

"She tried to explain to me why it was so important to keep what happened a secret. I knew it was about you and her, I knew something was going on, something bad, but I didn't know what. She wouldn't tell me. She just said, couldn't I understand? What it was like to love someone that much, that you'd do anything to keep them safe. What it was like not to be able to breathe until you saw them."

Scott stares at her, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling. "Lydia."

"Allison loved you, Scott," she whispers. "Really loved you. Forever kind of loved you."

Scott curls forward, one arm around her back as his head drops onto her shoulder. "Thanks, Lydia."

She sighs and hugs him back. There's something between the two of them now, an understanding. Everyone lost a friend that night, but Scott and Lydia both lost the person they loved the most.

"I just wish she would talk back to me, you know?" he mumbles.

 _Talk to me...  
_  
"Oh my god!" Lydia jumps up from the chair, knocking over her mug and spilling coffee all over the cement floor of the deck. "Scott, oh my god!"

"What? Lydia, what the hell?"

"Stiles!" Lydia shouts, running into the apartment. "Stiles, wake up!"

When she bursts into his room he's still in bed, head lifted barely an inch off his pillow. "What?" he groans. "Why, _why_ are we yelling?"

"Where's your board?"

"My what?"

"Your board, your murder board, where the fuck is it?"

"Under the bed," Stiles says, and face plants back on the bed, groaning. "Jesus Christ Lydia, I thought someone was dying."

"Thanks, go back to sleep." She kneels down next to the bed and sweeps one arm around on the floor and grips the edge of the poster board.

"Kay," Stiles mumbles.

Lydia lies down on her stomach, head next to the board. Lifts up one hand and curls her fingers around Hanna and Sadie's strings.

She plucks.

And listens to the girls sing to her in lilting, dreamy voices, like sirens:

 _Look at me_ , they call to her. _Look at me, look at me_.

/

"The photos weren't included in the police reports my dad got," Stiles announces, hanging up his phone and opening his laptop. "And he doesn't know anything about the third body yet because SCPD hasn't announced that they've found a body yet, and apparently asking would be considered _suspicious_."

"Why weren't the photos included?" Scott questions, opening the fridge and pulling out a loaf of wheat bread and a carton of eggs.

Stiles cracks his knuckles. "That's what I'm about to find out."

"Stiles," Lydia says sharply, curling her hand around a fresh mug of coffee. "What're you doing?"

"Research," he says innocently.

She walks around the island and hops up onto the stool next to him. "Elaborate."

"I'm going to find those pictures, since apparently there are two dead chicks who want us to looks at pictures of their bodies. Because that's not morbid at all."

"Dude." Scott pops two slices of bread into the toaster and starts cracking eggs into a bowl. "How're you going to get photos from a police file without your dad?"

"Don't worry about it Scotty, just make us food and look pretty."

"Oh Stiles," Lydia breathes, watching his fingers fly over the keys. "You wouldn't."

Stiles smirks. "If you're saying that you really have no idea what I'm capable of, do you?"

"When did you even have the time to learn how to do that?" She's actually kind of impressed, god knows this could be extremely useful in the future.

"Danny gave me a crash course back in June when we tracking that incubus."

Lydia peers over his shoulder, watching commands scroll down the screen as fast as his fingers can type. "That's so cool."

"What's so cool?" Scott asks from where he's standing over the stove, scraping eggs around in a pan with a spatula.

"Stiles is hacking the SFPD's files," she says proudly. She doesn't know what it says about her that she finds that skill extremely hot, but it has something to do with his long fingers, the look of pure concentration on Stiles' face. That little hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Stiles!" Scott looks only mildly horrified. "That is like, way illegal!"

"Since when do we care about that?" Stiles says incredulously. "This is life and death here."

"Okay," Scott says a little glumly. "Just don't get caught."

"Get caught? _Moi?_ Scott, who do you think you're talking to? Holy shit, I'm in, I'm in, I'm a fucking genius!"

Lydia chews anxiously on her lip, chin resting on Stiles's shoulder as photos start materializing on the screen.

The photos resolve and Stiles exclaims, "Jesus Christ, what the fuck?"

Her eyes widen, trying to figure out what she's looking at. "What the hell?"

"What?" Scott asks, turning off the burner. "What is it?"

Photos and photos of body parts, both wide shots and close ups, of white skin covered in ink. Intricate symbols, flowing lines of script in a language Lydia doesn't know, scrolling mathematical designs. Like tattoos.

Hanna's body is completely covered in them, like she's been painted in bridal henna. Geomatics patterns trail down each finger, clusters of dots like constellations over her closed eyelids and spilling over onto her cheekbone. A huge spiral that centers around her navel. Third dimensional pyramids under her breasts, foreign words curling and twisting around her collarbones. Her legs are covered in stars and moons, small numeric symbols running down her shins and up her calves.

The top half of Sadie's matches Hanna's, shot for shot, but the bottom half of her body is bare except for a few half-finished cubes on the tops of her thighs and stacks of triangles nesting in the crease of her hips.

"Well," Stiles says faintly. "Now we know why they think there's a serial killer."

Stiles and Lydia spend the rest of the day image searching, printing out huge copies of every individual symbol and shape and laying it out on the floor in the living room, all the furniture pushed back against the walls to make enough room.

When they find an image online Lydia write down the meaning or significance and the literal translation (sometimes they find both, sometimes neither) on a post-it and slaps it on the corresponding photo.

"I don't get it," Stiles rants, when it's almost midnight and they still haven't made heads or tails of it. "These are locations, these are astrological signs, these are _rotational degrees_ _of different planets_. This makes no fucking sense."

"Fibonacci sequences," Lydia catalogues. "Sacred geometry. Merkabas, the flower of life, the _tree_ of life, Metatron's cube."

"Are you thinking witches still?" Stiles asks, tracing a picture of a pattern of moons, cyclically waxing and waning around Hanna's ankle.

"Druids were more into math," Lydia muses. "The Greeks were into geometry, are there Greek Druids?"

"Deaton was annoyingly vague. Everyone has their preferences, there's no one way to do magic, blah blah blah, Google is more forthcoming than him."

"I don't even know why you're bothering with school," Scott says from his perch on the couch, where he's eating a plate of nachos and watching them work. "We all know the only career path for either of you is supernatural detective."

"Always wanted to be a detective," Stiles mutters, rotating a photo of interesting triangles around on the floor.

"God knows we have the life experience," Lydia comments.

"Scott could be our secretary," Stiles says, grinning.

"Hey!" Scott protests, sounding injured. "I have better things to do than be your bitch, okay?"

"Scott if you don't want me to make dog jokes than don't set me up for them."

"We could charge money," Lydia murmurs, trying to decipher what the shaded circles around Hanna's hip could be.

"It's always good to have a backup plan," Stiles says wryly.

"Okay," Lydia says. "After I get my phd of course."

"Of course," Stiles agrees seriously.

"There," Scott says happily. "Now that sounds like a good plan. See? I can make plans too."

"Congratulations!" Stiles announces. "You've officially been promoted to junior detective."

"Junior detective!" Scott exclaims, slapping one hand over his heart. "I've been waiting my whole life for this honor! I swear I'll do you proud, pops!"

"Okay, that's it, we need to go to bed," Lydia decides. "You two are totally slap happy, which makes you useless."

Stiles rubs at his eyes and reluctantly puts down a photo of the back of Sadie's neck, crawling with vines and branches. "Yeah, okay. I think my eyes are starting to blur anyway, these all look like squiggles. Hey, you wanna be the boss, Lydia? Wear five inch heels and tell us what to do?"

"Oh _sweetheart_ ," she says, her voice thick and sweet and just a little daring. "You know it."

/

Lydia works a day shift at the coffeehouse on Monday while Scott and Stiles are in classes. She walks home carefully, eyes wide, almost toe to toe the entire way. She shivers in relief when she gets to their building, anxiety settling when she unlocks the front door and goes up to the forth floor.

There's a girl sitting on the floor right in front of the apartment door, wearing a grey crewneck sweatshirt, blue jeans with a tear in one knee, combat boots. Honey colored waves tumbling over her shoulders.

Malia's head snaps up, reflexes kicking in when the heel of Lydia's boot skids to a stop. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm staying here for the semester." Lydia crosses her arms defensively over her chest. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Malia pulls herself up, a leather messenger bag slung around one shoulder. "Looking for Stiles."

"He has class until ten on Mondays."

"Oh." Malia looks dejectedly down at the floor.

Lydia sighs. "What's wrong? Scott and Kira said you haven't been answering your phone?"

"It doesn't work," Malia says sullenly.

"What happened?"

" I forgot to pay the bill," Malia admits. "I didn't know they'd shut my service off. And then I left my bus pass at the library and by the time I made it back they'd closed so I had to buy a new one but my card said I had insufficient funds and I don't know what that means but this asshole wouldn't sell me a pass so I walked here so Stiles could help me call the bank and why didn't anyone tell me being an adult sucks? It sucks, and it's stupid, I wish I was still a coyote!"

Malia stamps her foot angrily and bursts into tears.

"Okay," Lydia says gently. "Let's get you inside."

She texts Scott and he comes home fifteen minutes later carrying a brown take out bag with two huge burgers for him and Malia each and a quinoa salad with chicken for Lydia.

"Sorry I freaked out on you," Malia apologizes, when she's sprawled out on the couch with barbecue sauce smeared across one cheek.

Lydia shrugs. "Any day you guys don't wolf out on me is a win in my book."

Scott snorts. "I doubt your bar is that low, Lydia."

"I'm not saying I don't have standards, I just know how to manage my expectations." Lydia pats Malia's arm reassuringly. "If I had to walk all day in these boots I'd cry too."

By the time Stiles comes home from stats Scott is sitting on the arm of the couch doing his bio lab write-up while Lydia and Malia watch Heathers. Malia's head is in Lydia's lap, her feet curled around Scott's calves, like a pet.

Malia jumps up when Stiles comes in, her cheeks flushing a little. "Hey, Stiles."

"Hey." Stiles kind of glances around the room and when no one explains what Malia's doing there he shrugs, gives her a light hug, and plops down on the other end of the couch. "Oh my god, Winona Ryder is epic in this."

"Malia," Lydia prompts. "Why don't you tell Stiles why you're here?"

Malia pouts. "No thanks."

"Oh man," Stiles sighs. "What did you do? Bite a teacher? Wolf out on a classmate? Eat raw meat in the cafeteria?"

"I don't eat meat raw," Malia says in disgust. "I'm not an animal. Well, not all the time."

"Malia forgot to pay her phone bill and they cut her service off," Lydia tells Stiles.

"Hey!" Malia says indignantly. "You ratted me out!"

"Malia," Stiles says sternly. "That was on the list. Paying your bills was definitely on the list."

" _Sti-iles_ ," Malia whines. "I forgot."

"And her bank card isn't working," Lydia adds.

"Jesus." Stiles scrubs his face in his hands and then stands up, and holds his hand out to Malia. "Come on."

She doesn't get up, just looks at him apprehensively. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to teach you how to make a budget."

"No!" Malia groans. "Please don't make me do math."

"Oh you're doing math," Stiles threatens. "You can't just drop off like this, you need to learn how to handle your shit. Your mundane, annoying human shit like every other eighteen year old."

"Fine." Malia rolls her eyes. "Thanks a lot Lydia, now I have to do math. You suck."

Lydia smiles sweetly. "You bet I do."

Malia giggles and mouths _hot_ , and both boys shift a bit, abruptly looking away.

"And hey, what's with your floor?" Malia complains, tiptoeing between a picture of Hanna's left foot and Sadie's sternum. "Because it is seriously creepy."

"There's some witch or druid running around killing girls and drawing all over their bodies," Stiles says dejectedly. "We haven't been making much progress. Obviously."

Malia's face lights up with interest. "Witches?"

"Or druids. Or freaking wizards or some other terrifying person who's committing murder for reasons yet unknown," Lydia clarifies.

Malia inexplicably smiles. "Finally, something interesting! College is so boring."

"Is it bad if I don't completely disagree with that?" Stiles asks. "Not that it's not also completely terrifying, but I totally understand what you're saying."

"We've all probably become addicted to adrenaline," Lydia comments. "Or we all have complex PTSD and literally don't know how to function outside of life threatening situations anymore."

"That's a lovely thought," Stiles says dryly. "It's not our fault we keep ending up in these messes, we're all crazy traumatized and just can't help ourselves. Oh my god, are we turning into Derek?"

"At least we're still alive," Malia says cheerfully.

"See," Lydia says, catching Scott's eye and pointing to Malia. "Now _that's_ a low bar."


	13. Chapter 13

"Okay, here's what I don't get," Stiles says, leaning back in his overstuffed chair. They're at the coffee shop; Scott and Stiles are doing more research about the symbols they found on the bodies while Lydia works. "Hannah was the first week of October, Sadie the first week of November. But Jane Doe was six days after Sadie. It's not a pattern."

"That could be a good thing," Lydia comments, checking the clock on the wall. She has six minutes left before her break is over. "Maybe that means they aren't sacrifices."

"They're something," Stiles says. "And if they're not sacrifices then I don't know what they are. They're not random."

"Here's what I don't get," Scott says, a few photographs spread across his lap. "How come Hannah's whole body is covered in drawings but Sadie was only half done. Why wouldn't he finish it?"

"She was also the only body who wasn't left by the bridge," Stiles says. "It looks like the same guy but the details are all different."

"Maybe you were right about him getting interrupted with Sadie. Maybe something went wrong. What is Jane Doe isn't the third victim, what if she's really the second? If something went wrong before he was finished with Sadie maybe that wouldn't count?" Lydia muses.

"That would explain why it happened so soon after Sadie," Stiles says, fingers tracing along the timeline he's drawn on graph paper.

"But we still don't know what any of this stuff means..." Scott's thought is left unfinished as he reaches down to answer his ringing phone. The person on the other end answers and Scott's eyes widen, he nods and says, "Cool man, yeah, that'd be good...okay...sure, I'll text them... yeah, see you tonight...okay, bye."

Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott. "Who are we seeing tonight?"

Scott's still staring down at his phone. "Derek."

"Derek Hale?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Do we know another Derek?"

"What's Derek doing here?" Lydia asks. They haven't seen him since before senior year of high school.

Scott shrugs. "I don't know. He just said he was in town and wanted to take us to dinner."

"Dinner?" Stiles looks shocked. "The dude just kind of walked right off the reservation, went completely MIA, and now he wants to buy us dinner?"

"I guess," Scott says.

Stiles sighs, his head flopping back against the wall. "Just when I think things can't get any weirder Derek Hale shows up. Story of my freaking life."

/

They meet Derek that night at an Italian restaurant in the financial district. He's already waiting for them when they get there, dressed in charcoal slacks and a moss green sweater. He's got a few days worth of stubble and he's wearing _glasses_.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Derek?" Stiles demands.

"It's nice to see you too, Stiles," Derek deadpans.

"No, seriously, what are you? Derek clone? Shapeshifter? Robot?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Robot, seriously?"

"I don't know," Stiles petulantly. "You're wearing glasses! And a sweater!"

"I'm undercover," Derek says tightly.

"You're _what_?" Scott exclaims, but then Malia is yelling their names and Lydia sees her and Kira walking up the street, waving their hands.

They all suffer watching Scott and Kira go through the most awkward hug ever and go inside, where a hostess in a red cocktail dress takes them to a long table in the far corner of the restaurant.

Scott and Kira both try to sit away from each other from each other and are partially foiled by Malia, who grabs Kira and pulls her down in the chair on her right, then looks up at Scott and demands, "Scott, sit next to me!" and yanks him into the chair on her left.

Derek naturally picks the seat across from Scott and Stiles rolls his eyes, one hand on Lydia's waist as he sits down next to Derek and pulls Lydia's chair out for her. Malia and Kira immediately launch into a story about the party at Berkeley they went to last night while Derek and Scott talk about mundane Alpha stuff. A pack Derek met in Oregon a few months ago, the last full moon, the cities he's passed through since he left Beacon Hills.

Lydia picks up the glass of wine she ordered and takes a large sip, pretending to pay attention to the punchline of Kira's joke. She's getting a feeling she doesn't like, dread sinking like a stone in her stomach. That this is just playing pretend, that Derek is lulling then into a sense of calm - wine, good food, all of them together, to lesson the sting when he tells them whatever he's going to tell them.

She jumps when Stiles' left hand lands on her bare thigh, just above her knee. She turns her head sharply in his direction but he's turned away from

her, immersed in a discussion with Scott and Derek about the merits of Chicago style pizza over New York.

His hand squeezes.

Lydia leans back in her chair, wineglass dangling from her fingertips. She pretends to listen to another story about Kira's wacky roommate while Stiles' thumb starts to stroke the inside of her thigh. Something deep in her stomach clenches and she exhales slowly, staring at a fixed point on the wall behind Kira's head.

His hand slides higher up, under her skirt, where no one can see. She sighs and shifts, spreading her legs under the table so Stiles can stroke the hollow at the top of the inside of her thigh, fingers wandering across the crease of her hip. All the while not looking at her, perfectly calm on he surface except for his free hand drumming on the edge of the table.

Lydia presses her lips together and shifts closer in her seat to give him better access. Stiles' fingers are teasing under the damp silk of her panties when Derek chokes on his glass of water, elbow driving into Stiles' side.

"Dude, what the fuck!" Stiles complains, pressing his hands against his ribs. "Fragile human here, remember? I _bruise_ , Derek."

"Are. You. Serious?" Derek gives them both a disdainful look. His nostrils twitch and Lydia flushes with shame, suddenly aware that she's incredibly aroused and sitting two seats away from a werewolf.

"Excuse me," she murmurs, getting up from the table. She trails her fingers across the back of Stiles' neck as she walks away on wobbly legs across the restaurant and pulls herself into a private bathroom.

Lydia locks the door and slides her hand under her thong, finishes herself off with her forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door and her fist against her mouth. In the mirror she looks strung out: pupils dilated, hair mussed, lips wet and red.

She washes her hands carefully and smoothes her hair, walks back to the table with her head held high and slides back into her seat just as everyone is ordering.

"So," she says, after she's ordering whole wheat linguine in a cream sauce with roasted chicken. "What did I miss?"

"Oh, not much." Stiles' voice is sharp enough to cut. "Just that Derek's been looking into witches along the west coast for the past _five months_."

Lydia's chest tightens. "Witches?"

"Technically they're a cult," Derek corrects. "They practice an ancient form of black magic."

"How ancient?" Lydia asks.

"Atlantis era."

Stiles is gaping. "Did he just say - did you just say-"

"Yes, Atlantis was real," Derek says impatiently. "The point is, they've been systematically killing young women since this summer. They started in Washington and have been moving south ever since."

"That's why you're here," Stiles says flatly. "Because you know about the witches or cult magicians or whatever the fuck they are-"

" _Keep your voice down_ ," Derek growls.

"And we've been totally in the dark about this, wasted days researching blind, and the whole time-"

"Wait, you _knew_ -"

"And you didn't even think of _warning_ us-"

"We are in _public,_ " Lydia hisses. "You're acting like children."

"He knew!" Stiles whisper-shouts. "Derek's known this whole time and didn't tell us!"

Derek blinks behind his fake glasses. "Of course I was going to tell you, what do you think I'm doing here?"

"And while we're on the topic, what the hell is going on with-" Stiles gestures wildly at Derek " _whatever_ this is?"

"I told you, I'm undercover," Derek says sullenly. "We've been trying to infiltrate the group."

" _We?_ " Scott asks pointedly.

"Braeden and I. And a few others."

"Fantastic." Stiles slams his hands on the table. "So how do we get rid of them?"

"It's not that simple," Derek says. "They have a lot of power. It's what they've been doing - they haven't just been killing, they've been stealing power."

"How?" Scott asks. "Like a sacrifice?"

Derek frowns. "Not exactly. Life - anything conscious - has energy. You can harness it, control it, and if you're strong enough you can steal it."

"They were raped," Lydia says tightly. "How does that factor in?"

Derek winces. "That's a part of the method they practice. It uses sexual intercourse to generate self-directed energy. It's extremely powerful if done correctly."

" _Sex magic?_ " Stiles squawks. "They're using sex magic? That's really a thing?"

" _Yes_ , shut _up_ ," Derek mutters. "And then they kill them. They generate energy and then they steal it. And it's working."

"So what do they want?" Scott asks. "Why are they doing this?"

"Why do you think?" Derek raises an eyebrow. "What do they always want?"

"Power," Lydia realizes.

"And they're getting stronger," Derek says. "We've been tracking them. They're on course to getting to Beacon Hills by next week."

Scott groans into his hands. "That's Thanksgiving."

"I'm assuming you're all going home?" Derek asks.

Everyone except Kira nods. "I'm going to New York with my parents," she says softly, sounding guilty. "But if you need me to-"

"No," Scott says, the first time all night he's looked straight at her. "You deserve to be with your parents."

Kira looks uncertain. "Are you sure?"

Scott nods, looking around the table. "We'll be okay."

" _We're_ not doing anything," Derek says. "You're going to let me and Braeden handle them."

Scott leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. "You're not my Alpha."

"Oh yay, here we go again," Stiles mutters.

"There's something else you don't know," Derek says. "We have some intel that they can kill remotely."

Scott blinks a few times, mouth open. "I don't know what that means."

Lydia tosses back the rest of her wine in one gulp. "It means they can kill us without being physically present."

Stiles looks horrified. "That's not possible, how is that possible?"

"That's the thing about magic, Stiles." Derek says wryly. "Anything is possible."

/

They drive back to Beacon Hills the day before Thanksgiving in Stiles' Jeep. Lydia sits up front while Stiles drives, Scott and Malia stretched out in the backseat playing the slap game, testing each others' reflexes against the pull of the car.

"Hey!" Stiles shouts from the driver's seat when Malia accidentally swipes a headrest with her claws. "Watch the upholstery!"

"Sorry!" Malia says cheerfully, sounding not the least bit sorry.

They stop at seven-eleven and Lydia and Malia eat turkey sandwiches on a picnic bench while Scott and Stiles suck down cherry slushies. They're thirty miles out from Beacon Hills and to Lydia's surprise she can feel it, a little tug right below her navel.

The guys must be feeling it too, because when they get back in the Jeep Scott leans forward to curl his arms around the back of Stiles' seat, hands cupping Stiles' shoulders. The keys dangle loose in the ignition, nothing but the faint sound of traffic on the highway and the crunch of Malia's potato chips from the backseat.

"Okay?" Lydia asks, kicking off her bare shoes so she can sit cross legged in her seat.

Stiles clears his throat, reaches up and pats Scott's hand. "Scotty we've talked about this, no PDA in front of the girls, I have a reputation to protect."

Scott snorts. "Whatever dude. You're the one whose heart's-"

"Scott!" Stiles voice is sharp and Scott releases him, retreating to the backseat.

"Hey." Lydia reaches across the console and curls her fingers around Stiles' wrist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mutters. "It's fine, I'm just feeling it."

"Oh," she nods in understanding. She didn't sacrifice her life for a parent but she can still feel the pull of the Nemeton, a dark shadow pressing up against her heart. "Does it hurt?"

"More like pressure," Scott answers. "Here." He touches the center of his chest.

She spreads her hand across Stiles' chest, like she can pull the pain away, like Scott does. "I met this girl in my woman's studies class," Lydia tells them. "She was from Beijing, she moved here when she was twelve. She didn't go back to visit until she graduated high school. She was hospitalized three days into her trip, she spent her whole vacation there."

"Why?" Scott asks.

"The smog," Lydia answers. "Her body wasn't used to the pollution anymore. She couldn't breathe."

Stiles shuts his eyes, heart skittering under her hand. "Now there's an apt metaphor."

"Do you want me to drive?" she offers.

Stiles exhales, long and slow. "Nah, I'm okay. Just like old times, right?"

That makes everyone fall into silence. For a moment Lydia fantasizes about turning around, going to San Francisco International and getting on a plane. Meeting Kira in New York, or fuck it, somewhere tropical and exotic: Bali, Mykonos, Bangkok.

Anywhere but Beacon Hills.

"I didn't realize this would be so hard," Scott says pensively. "It's only been a few months."

"You mean a few months where no one we knew personally died. A few months where we were actually doing homework and sleeping in our own bed every night. A few months where we weren't dragging each other half dead to Deaton's in the middle of the night and getting the shit kicked out of us." Stiles' voice rises, his hands gripping the steering wheel, elbows locked.

"We could not go," Lydia suggest softly.

"I have to go, my dad would kill me," Stiles says.

"Dude, your dad's working tomorrow," Scott points out.

"Tomorrow night, he's coming to dinner," Stiles corrects. "And your mom would totally murder you."

"True," Scott admits dejectedly.

The three of them collectively sigh.

"Besides," Stiles says tightly. "We have to help Derek deal with the cult slash ritual murderers."

"Aw c'mon dude, seriously?" Scott cries. "He's dealing with it, he's got Braeden."

"Scott, we're already involved. I know you and Derek have this perpetual power struggle thing happening and I respect that man, but I can't deal with more girls getting killed. I can't fucking look at another dead body, alright? I need it to stop, so quit whining and buck up!"

Something in the air snaps, they all go very still. He's not yelling exactly but there's edge to Stiles' voice, some familiar echo of hysteria that makes Lydia nauseous. She remembers what she said in the shower after the third girl was killed.

 _I don't want to do this anymore._

"Stiles?" Malia's small voice from the backseat.

He sighs heavily, scrubbing his face, but his voice comes out calm and patient. "What's up, Malia?"

"Is everyone sad?"

Stiles turns around in his seat, eyebrows raised. "Why are you asking me that?"

Malia turns away so she's looking out the window. "You guys smell sad," she mutters. "And mad. I don't like it."

"Malia, its not polite to talk about how people smell," Lydia reprimands lightly.

Malia crosses her arms defensively, curled up against her door. "Well maybe I don't want to be stuck in a car when you guys are upset and yelling. You're not supposed to drive when you're upset. We could crash."

Stiles winces. They all forget sometimes, Lydia realizes, that under Malia's half-feral attitude and claws and blunt talk is a little girl who watched her family die in a car.

"Malia, Stiles won't crash," Scott reassures her. "Everything's okay."

"Whatever," Malia says sullenly. "I don't care. Thanksgiving is stupid."

"They'll be pie," Stiles says, his voice placating. "You like pie, remember?"

Malia's mouth twists. "It's okay."

"Hey, I'm sorry I yelled. Okay?"

Malia nods and lets Scott tug her away from the door and sit in the middle seat with his arm around her.

"So," Lydia sighs. "Lets get on with it then."

"Yeah," Scott say dryly. "Great pep talk guys."

"Hey look who finally gets sarcasm!" Stiles turns the key in the ignition. "Next semester I'm teaching you puns."

Scott groans from the backseat and Lydia stifles a laugh. She squeezes Stiles shoulder and leans back in her seat as he pulls the Jeep back onto the road, steers the car right into the dark storm of Beacon County.

Scott and Malia both get dropped off at his house, whether by coincidence or convenience Lydia isn't sure. When Stiles parks outside her house there's an awkward moment of silence. They've been almost symbiotic lately, the way they've been living, and it feels wrong to leave, to get out of the car and go into her house without him.

She unbuckles her seatbelt but instead of opening her door she swings her leg over the console to straddle Stiles, knees pressed against his hips.

His hands fly to her hips, one eyebrow going up in surprise. "Hey, what's this for?"

She smirks. "We're early. My mom won't be home for at least another ten minutes."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles gives her a lazy grin. "Was there something you wanted to do before she gets back?"

"Mm, I have an idea or two," she teases, tongue purposefully wetting her lower lip.

"Fuck yeah," Stiles sighs, shifting and suddenly she's right under him, all lined up under layers of denim and cotton.

His lips fall to her neck and Lydia tilts her head to give him better access. One roll of her hips sends a flutter of pleasure shooting through her core so she does it again, bracing her hands on his shoulders for leverage. His lips go lower, pulling the edge of her shirt away with his teeth. Stiles licks her bare shoulder and Lydia whimpers, dropping her head to that perfect junction between Stiles' neck and shoulder.

His hands skate lower, curling over her hipbones, moving with her, teeth dragging over her collarbone. Lydia grinds against him, everything dissolving - the dead girls, Derek's mysterious reappearance, Malia's tantrum. It's just Stiles and her, heat and wet tongues on skin, the pulse between her legs strong and insistent.

"Oh, god," Stiles groans. "Lydia. Fuck, if we keep doing this I'm gonna come in my pants."

"So?" she breathes, her skin too tight, body pushed up against him. "I know you have to do laundry anyway, what's one more pair?"

Stiles bucks up and a low cry tears out of her throat, her fingers tighten their grip on his shoulders. "Come, if you want, just please don't stop."

He doesn't, moving along to her rhythm, hands tight on her hips to guide her. "Really? Like this?"

"Yeah," she whines, eyes falling shut as it starts to build, her stomach tightening in anticipation. "Yeah, come on."

"Oh fuck," Stiles hisses, and plants his feet flat on the floorboard.

Then he's holding Lydia against his body, hips slamming up into hers, hands splayed against her back so every thrust rubs right against where she needs it and she comes sobbing, forehead against his chest, body shaking with it, aftershocks making her pant as Stile seizes up underneath her, swearing, fisting the back of her shirt as her comes apart under her.

"Jesus," Stiles groans, head dropping back against the headrest. "You're totally going to ruin me."

You too, she thinks, sliding off his lap, peeling her wet panties down her legs and stuffing them into a side pocket of her bag. "Do you have anything to clean up with?"

"Glove box." Stiles blinks heavily at her, one hand fumbling across the seat to stroke her thigh through her tights.

She opens the glove compartment and sits there, mouth open, because the contents is, well, a bit fascinating to say the least:

All the papers for the car, instruction manual, insurance, and registration, nearly bundled together.

A basic first aid box.

A four pack of Bic lighters.

An envelope containing at least five hundred dollars, all in crisp twenties.

A wooden box that houses small glass vials of mountain ash, wolfsbane, mistletoe, sage, and kanima venom, neatly labeled in Latin.

"There should be Wet Wipes towards the back," Stiles says, still blissed out with half-shut eyes, jeans tugged down around his hips.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm?"

"What is this?"

He blinks heavily at her. "It's just in case."

"Just in case _what?_ "

"Anything. This is nothing, wait 'til I show you the trunk."

Her hand digs past an external phone battery, and a roll of duct tape before she finds them, helps Stiles clean up the mess in his boxers.

"Hey Lyds?"

She finger combs her hair, examines her neck in the mirror for any tell-tale makes. "What?"

"Look it's not a big deal, it's just, we're home and it's a holiday and it's the first time we've been around our parents and everyone all together, and I know you and I haven't talked about what we are yet, so I guess I was just wondering..."

"Wondering what?"

His leg starts to bounce up and down. "Wondering if you wanted to keep it a secret."

She blinks in surprise. "Like not tell anyone?"

"I haven't told Scott yet," Stiles says softly. He's not looking at her, he's staring out the window. "You'd think he'd put it together but he can be kind of-"

"Dense?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "And like, I wouldn't tell anyone without talking to you about it first but you're about to go home and I probably won't see you until tomorrow, so I just wanted to know, um, want to say. Or not say."

"Stiles." He flinches, doesn't turn his head. "Hey, look at me."

His eye are tender, vulnerable in a way that makes Lydia hurt. She wants to protect him, wants to make armor out of her body so one can touch him without having to go through her first. "Stiles, I don't want to keep you a secret."

His whole body relaxes next to her, shoulders dropping in relief. "Yeah?"

"I would never do that to you," she says fiercely. "I know that when we first became friends our - the amount of affection we had for each other was initially disproportionate - but I've always respected you. I don't always agree with you and I haven't always been kind to you but I would _never_ treat you like that."

Stiles eyes are wide. "Yeah, I. Okay. That. Alright. That is good to know."

"That being said," she continues. "Maybe we should focus on getting through the weekend before we start printing the invitations?"

A grin creeps across his face. "Invitations?"

She rolls her eyes. "It's a figure of speech."

"I knew it!" Stiles points an accusatory finger at her. "You want me. You want to marry me. You want to wife me up."

"Well," she says casually. "It's not my fault you look so hot in an apron."

He laughs and it makes something in her chest lift. "Hey," he says. "You know, I really fucking like you."

She smiles back, because she's a girl who does that now, smiles reflexively because seeing him happy makes her happy. And it's doesn't feel like mirror neurons at work, it feels like love. "I really like you too."

"I know we're like, eternally bound by trauma and sacrifices and guilt and Beacon Hills," he says. "And you're my tether, and you keep me here, and when I feel like I'm...you always bring me back. But even without all that stuff...I just really like you."

"Stiles," she whispers. She doesn't know what to say back, so she kisses his cheek and curls her arms around him. "It's going to be strange sleeping in different beds."

He rests his cheek on the top of her head. "You gonna miss me?"

"I missed you at school," she admits.

"You could've called."

"No," she murmurs.

Stiles snorts. "You have an unhealthy amount of pride, you realize that?"

"Oh please, like you have any dignity to speak of."

Stiles' lips curve up in a teasing smile. "That's why I can rock the apron."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This is finally finished, enjoy!**

 _Have you ever read about remote viewing?_

Lydia blinks at the phone screen, her dark bedroom illuminated by Stiles' incoming text. Before she can reply her phone vibrates again:

 _It sounds like astro projection._

 _The CIA developed a psy-ops program in the sixties and seventies. Tried to train soldiers how to spy on our enemies by developing psychic powers._

Lydia rubs her eyes and checks the time on her phone: 4:16am.

 _Stiles, go to sleep_

 _Can't. Researching. The force is real._

Lydia sighs, dials his number and lays back down, turns her phone on speaker and sets it next to her pillow.

"So back then we were totally obsessed with the Russians, right?" Stiles answers without preamble. "The Cold War was heating up. So get this, the CIA decides to open a division dedicated to developing psychological warfare. They were trying to make our soldiers psychic. Psychic!"

"Have you slept at all?"

"Dinner isn't until four, I can sleep in."

"Stiles."

"I know. I'm sorry, I woke you up."

"It's okay," she says softly. "I don't care about that."

She hears him sigh into the phone. "You're coming over to Scott's tomorrow, right?"

"I have to eat with my mom and her boyfriend first but I'm coming over for dessert."

"I miss you," he says quietly. "I know that's stupid, and it's surprisingly comforting to sleep in my old bed, considering I've spent the past three years here having nightmares, but I think I may have gotten a bit dependent on having you next to me." He laughs quietly. "Sorry. It's just weird. Being here."

"I miss you too," she confesses. "And it's not - you're my anchor, right?"

"And you're mine," he affirms.

She wishes she could see his face then, wishes she could kiss his eyelids and the tip of his nose, show him all the ways she needs him as much as he needs her.

"So it's okay," she says. "I need you too."

"You're kind of amazing, you know that?"

"Yes, you've mentioned it," she says teasingly.

"My Dad is working tomorrow night," he says, voice low.

"Good. I have plans."

Stiles groans into the phone. "Sexy plans?"

"Get some sleep," she advises. "I'm going to need your stamina."

"Oh hell yes," Stiles says. "Absolutely. On it."

She smiles. "Goodnight Stiles."

/

Thanksgiving day is cool and clear. Lydia eats with her mom, her new boyfriend, her aunt, and a few cousins. She gets through it with a modicum of awkwardness, pretending she's not counting down the minutes until she can leave.

Her mother drives her to Scott's house, two cardboard boxes stacked neatly on her lap, one containing chocolate caramel brownies from Stiles' favorite bakery and the other whole grain vegan pumpkin spice muffins specifically for the sheriff.

"So," her mother says when they're parked outside the McCall house. "Have you thought about what you're going to do next semester?"

"I'm registering for classes, that was always the plan," Lydia says. "And I'm going to have to stay for the summer and take some classes to catch up if I want to graduate on time."

Her mother's smile tightens a little but she just reaches over and brushes a stray hair off Lydia's forehead. "That sounds like a good plan, sweetheart. And are you going to - have you given any thought to where you're going to live?"

"There are some open apartments in the building we live in," Lydia muses. "I don't want to go back to the dorm."

Her mother laughs lightly. "Well that's understandable. I'll talk to your dad, I'm sure he'll want to look at them with you."

Lydia nods, fingers curling over the edge of the boxes. "That would be great."

"Good," her mother says, efficiently making a note in her iPhone.

"Do you want to come in with me?" Lydia offers tentatively.

Her mother's mouth twists. Lydia remembers what Stiles told her after she came home from Eichen.

That her mother refused to listen to him when she was in the hospital, tried to keep them apart, because she didn't understand, didn't try to understand until they rescued Lydia from being tortured.

"Maybe next time," she eventually says, but she pulls Lydia into a hug. "I love you more than anything, you know that right?"

Lydia kisses her cheek, powdery and smooth. "I know. Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."

Her mother squeezes her tight. "Happy Thanksgiving baby."

Lydia lets herself into Scott's house, bakery boxes balanced in one hand and her overnight bag slung over her shoulder. She walks into the living room and stops short: Derek is sprawled on the couch with the Sheriff, both of them watching the football game while Melissa sits on the arm of the couch next to the sheriff, holding a mug of coffee.

It's so unbelievably mundane that for one second Lydia wonders if she's stepped through a portal, some alternate universe where everything is normal, where Derek Hale and Sheriff Stilinski watch football like old army buddies (although she guess in a way, they are. War is war, theirs just looks differently) and her friends all celebrate holidays together just for the sake of it, not because there's something out there threatening their safety and pushing them together out of fear, bound together by trauma.

"Lydia!" Ms. McCall jumps off the couch and gives her a warm, maternal hug. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Lydia smiles at the Sheriff. "Happy Thanksgiving."

He reaches over the back of the couch and squeezes her shoulder. "Nice to see you, sweetheart."

"You too." She raises an eyebrow at Derek. "Hale."

He smirks at her. "Martin."

Lydia rolls her eyes and holds out the desserts towards Melissa. "Is there somewhere I can put these?"

"The kitchen is fine." She leans into Lydia's space, shooting a covert glance at the men on her couch. "You have any idea what's going on with this?" she whispers.

Lydia shakes her head and Melissa sighs, looking down into her mug. "It's always something, isn't it?"

Lydia smiles weakly. "Seems that way."

In the kitchen Scott and Stiles both have their laptops open at the table. Scott is Skyping with Kira while Malia peers over his shoulder and Stiles is reading something, research probably, eyes glazed over and a pen rolling between his fingers.

He jumps up when he sees her, holding out his hands to her. "Hey you're finally here, I have a million pages of research to show you but first I need to investigate, what did you bring, oh my god did you bring Thanksgiving brownies?"

"And these are for your dad. Sugar free and vegan."

Stiles gives her a soft smile that makes her feel all sorts of disgusting squishy things inside. "Thanks, Lydia."

"You're welcome." She feels shy suddenly, takes a few steps forward and goes up on her tiptoes to gives him the lightest peck on the cheek. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Are you guys gonna kiss for real already or what?" Scott calls out. Kira's tinny laugh echoes from his laptop speakers.

She and Stiles both jump apart; Stiles' cheeks are suddenly pink. "Why-why would we kiss?" he stammers.

"Oh my _god_ ," Malia groans, like it's physically hurting her at how purposely obtuse he's being. "Seriously?"

Lydia puts the bakery boxes down on the table and shrugs out of her emerald green silk bomber jacket. "Seriously what?" she asks innocently.

Scott starts to laugh. "Oh my god, you guys. _Guys_. You really thought we all didn't know?"

"Know what?" Lydia asks.

"You reek of lust," Malia proclaims. "Your apartment, at that pack dinner, in the car-"

"Okay, you've made your point," Lydia says hastily. "We get it, subversion doesn't work on super smell."

"So you knew." Stiles says flatly. "You knew we were together and you never said anything?"

Scott shrugs lightly but there's a wicked twinkle in his eye. "Just because I'm not as smart as you guys doesn't mean I'm totally oblivious. Besides, you aren't nearly as subtle as you think you are."

Stiles throws his hands in the air. "Fine!" he shouts. "Fine!"

And then he's stalking across the room with a determined look on his face, and Stiles grabs her by the waist and his lips crash against hers. Lydia almost bends backwards from the sheer force of him and leans against the kitchen table, reaching up to bury her hands in his hair.

When he finally pulls away Malia is whistling and Scott is slow clapping.

"What happened?" Kira cries. "Did they kiss? Oh my god they totally kissed and I missed it!"

"Show off," Lydia teases but her heart is pounding and fuck the brownies, she wants to leave right now and fuck Stiles in his old room at his house, wants to fulfill every teenage fantasy he's ever had about her.

"Oh my god." Scott's groaning. "Okay, I get it. Jesus."

They all eat dessert together in the dining room, Melissa has an apple and a pecan pie already cut and steaming on the table. Stiles eats a slice of each and three brownies apiece. He slaps his dad's hand away when he goes for his third brownie, sternly redirecting him to the muffins.

"So," Melissa says, when everyone's demolished their dessert and halfway to a sugar high. "Which one of you wants to tell me what's going on?"

Scott lets out this awful nervous laugh. "What do you mean, Mom?"

"Oh be quiet, you've been sucking up to me all day, something's going on," Melissa snaps. "And you." She points aggressively at Stiles. "You look like you haven't slept in days. And _you_ " - the finger shifts to point at Derek - "you vanish from my son's life as quickly as you show up, and no one seems to have any explanation for me"-

"Mom"-

"And I have no idea what this one's doing here." She indicates Malia before giving her a sheepish smile. "Not that you aren't welcome, sweetheart, but don't you have a family?"

"Well my mom tried to kill me senior year so we don't really keep in touch," Malia says dryly. "And my dad, well" -

"Enough." Derek's voice is soft but so firm everyone falls silent. "I'm here because there's a group of witches moving through town."

The sheriff chokes on his muffin. "Witches?"

"Well, technically they're a group of dark magicians," Stiles says, who's clearly been studying up on ancient magic. "But there's a lot of paganism crossover with traditional Wicca so for all intents and purposes"-

"Stiles," Derek interrupts sharply.

"You know what?" the sheriff says, pushing back from his chair. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Daaad," Stiles groans.

"Nope, no, I don't have time for this, I have to go to work." He crosses his arms and gives Derek a pensive look. "These witches or magicians, _Jesus Christ_ , they dangerous?"

Derek nods. "I have a colleague here with a security team patrolling. We're - monitoring the situation closely."

The sheriff sighs mournfully. "Lovely, we've got vigilantes on the loose."

"Braeden's a mercenary, actually," Stiles corrects. "But seeing as they only kill teenage girls I think you're okay."

The sheriff raises a sharp eyebrow. "They're the serial killer?"

Stiles throws his hands out to the sides and honest-to-god wiggles his fingers. "Surprise!"

The sheriff chokes on a laugh. "My son the comedian." He looks back at Derek. "Are you anticipating needing backup?"

"I'm not expecting any trouble but if we come across any I'll be sure to let you know," Derek says politely, kicking Stiles under the table when he mouths kiss-ass at him.

The Sheriff looks stern but apparently takes Derek at his word because he leaves for work without making too much of a fuss. Melissa retreats to the kitchen to start on the dishes and a few minutes later Scott slinks after her with a guilt ridden look on his face.

Everything is very quiet and then from the kitchen they all hear an extremely loud _witches, Scott? Really?_ and Derek and Malia both clamp their hands over their ears until the volume drops to a tolerable level.

"So," Stiles says, when they can't hear anything but the sound of running water in the other room. "What's the plan?"

"The plan is stay out of it," Derek says tightly.

"Excuse me?" Stiles sputters. "Seriously? Have you met me? You really think I'm just going to stay out of it?"

"You'll stay out of it or I'll make you stay out of it," Derek retorts.

"No, he won't," Lydia snaps. "When they killed Hanna - the first girl - I screamed in the middle of an exam and got an nice little vacation in the psych ward for my trouble. Those magicians are the reason I had to take the semester off of school."

Something in Derek's jaw twitches. "I didn't know that."

"The second girl's name was Sadie," she continues. "She was a waitress. The night she was murdered I went into a fugue state and walked three miles in bare feet and nearly got hit by a car. When they killed the third girl-" she turns to the side to look at Stiles. "Do we know who she is yet?"

He nods. "Aerin Donovan, Irish citizen. Nineteen. She was in the country on a student visa."

"They threw her body over the bridge," she tells Derek. "At five in the morning. I saw it."

Derek rubs a hand over his face. "Has it occurred to you that the reason I'm trying to keep you out of it is to protect you?"

"Protect us?" Stiles exclaims. "You left dude, you fucking left town. We're not kids Derek, we know how to protect ourselves, okay? And no offense but our plans tend to be like, light years better than yours anyway. So if you don't want us involved because you're a ridiculous martyr who's incapable of asking for help-"

"I'm working with Braeden," Derek says stiffly. "She has friends who are here. I'm not being an idiot Stiles, I'm just trying to keep the situation contained."

"We're already involved," Stiles argues. "We've been involved since we had to spring Lydia from the hospital when Stanford tried to institutionalize her."

"Stiles," she reprimands softly.

Stiles sighs heavily and rakes a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry man, it's just, you can't come in here acting all _me alpha, you dumb human_. You have to trust that we know what we're doing."

"It isn't that I don't trust you," Derek grinds out. "So far they've only killed human girls. I don't know if that's by design or coincidence. Now they could be in Beacon Hills because their magic is pulling them here-"

"We really need to figure out how to shut down that fucking tree," Malia interjects.

"Or," Derek goes on as if he didn't hear her. "If they're here because they're looking for a bigger sacrifice. More power."

"Like a werewolf," Lydia realizes.

"Or a banshee," Derek counters. "Anything supernatural is fair game."

"What makes you think they'd change their pattern?" Stiles counters.

Derek shrugs. "Human girls could just be a preference, not a requirement."

Stiles grimaces. "So what's Braeden and her merry band of killers up to? Patrolling?"

Derek nods. "And Braeden knows a witch here-"

"For real?" Stiles interrupts. "That's sick."

"Anyway, she gave them a spell to perform around the perimeter of the town. It's linked to us, we'll feel it if they start performing magic."

"Like a supernatural alarm system?" Stiles says with interest.

"That's the idea," Derek says.

"What about the others?" Lydia asks. "Has anyone talked to Liam?"

"Yeah, Scott gave him a head's up," Stiles says. "And um, I talked to Mason. I had him create a potential victim list based on the profile of the three girls."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Profile?"

"Female, roughly eighteen years old, light hair, educated," Stiles rattles off. "He pulled about twenty names, I could send you the list," he offers.

"Good," Derek says roughly. "Now look, Malia's staying here with Scott, I don't want anyone on their own until this is over. Lydia, I assume you're staying with Stiles tonight?"

"Yes," Lydia says sweetly, and slides her hand up the inside of Stiles' thigh. "That's the plan."

/

They drive back to Stiles' house in relative silence, their hands clasped together over the gear shift. Lydia looks out the window and watches the houses blur by, wonders at all the people feeling warm and safe inside their homes, no awareness of the danger just beyond their front door.

Stiles parks the Jeep in the driveway, walks around to open her door for her and wordlessly slings her overnight bag over his shoulder. He leads her through the front door and into the dark foyer with a gentle hand against the small of her back.

They climb the stairs together, the air thick with the thrill of anticipation. When they get to Stiles' bedroom Lydia tilts her head towards the bathroom. "I'm just going to freshen up."

In the bathroom she uses the toilet, washes her hands and sprays a light mist of Dior Addict over her pulse points. She takes off her cream cashmere sweater dress, carefully folds it and places it in her bag. Lydia examines herself in the mirror: she's wearing a burgundy lace balconette bra and matching lace boyshorts, the color rich against her pale skin. She touches up her complimentary dark lipstick and runs a brush through her hair.

Her heart rate is slightly elevated, skin tingling when she thinks about Stiles in his room, waiting for her. She wants to look perfect for him, wants to give him everything. Wants to see what she's been missing, all those years of careful looks and occasional touches and Stiles' arms holding her tight against him like he could protect her from anything by sheer force of will, all of it culminating to this moment, here, now.

When she comes back to the bedroom he's sitting patiently on the edge of the bed, stripped down to his tee shirt. His desk lamp is on but the overhead light is off, bathing the room in soft dim light. Lydia can't help but pose a bit in the doorway, arches her back and sucks in her stomach, bats her lashes. "Hi."

"Hey, wow, okay." Stiles' eyes go wide. "You look nice."

She gives him a saucy smile and steps into the room. "Just nice?"

"Incredible," he says quickly. "Beautiful. Fucking gorgeous."She takes slow careful steps like a dancer, enjoying the way his eyes track her as she gets closer to him. "So you like it?"

He swallows. "Did - did you wear this for me?"

"I did," she confirms, and steps into the space between his open legs.

"You're amazing," he breathes. His hands are spread flat on his thighs, like he's trying to restrain himself from touching her. "I love it."

"Good," she says, and gets one knee on the bed to swing herself up into his lap.

"Hey, that's more like it," he says warmly.

They're almost the same height like this, it's easy to tilt her face up to capture his lips. He kisses her back, hands coming up to rest at her waist. Lydia sighs into his mouth, the heat of his palms sinking into her skin. It's a deep kiss, exploratory, lips slowly parting against pressure. There's no rush this time. They both know where this is leading.

They know each other now, know how to read the signs. There's something in the letting go, in giving herself over to him: letting someone see her, really see her.

It's something she's only had with Allison, and even then, not until towards the end. Lydia is too intelligent to not protect her heart, but Allison Argent with her stupidly adorable dimples and general bad-assery won Lydia over. Made her believe in something different. Something bigger than herself.

Allison died for her, left her a legacy: nobility, strength. Faith.

And then there was Stiles. Who determinedly wormed himself into her life. Who told her she looked beautiful when she cried. The boy strong enough to survive a possession, the boy who always figures it out ( _so you can do it. Figure. It. Out._ )

The boy who saved her.

Stiles' hands start to stroke, trailing up and down her sides. She shifts in his lap, feeling him hard in his jeans. Lydia curls her hands around his shoulders, bunches the fabric of his shirt up with her fingers.

"Off?" she suggests.

Stiles nods and she crawls off him, scoots back to lean against the headboard. He stands up and peels his grey crewneck off. Lydia watches the muscles in his back bunch and flex, feels the fabric of her panties dampen as he turns, broad chest tapering to a narrow waist. Stiles unzips his jeans and kicks them off. His left heel gets caught on the hem and he has to hop for a second to get untangled and Lydia smiles, feeling a warm wave of endearment.

He turns back to her and stops, eyes tripping over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. "I've thought about you in my bed like this a million times but I gotta say, real you blows dream you out of the water."

Lydia allows herself to really take him in. He's lean but it's all muscle, strong biceps and a flat stomach, that beautiful iliac V. She pats the bed. "Come keep a girl company."

Stiles swings one long leg over her, naked except for his plaid boxers, and settles between her legs, coming down on his forearms. "God," he mutters. "I want to do so many things to you Lydia, you have no idea."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, I think I have a few."

He drops his head to her chest, starts to explore the exposed column of her throat with his tongue.

Lydia slides her hands over his shoulders, walks her fingers down his spine. Lets the pads of her fingertips catch over stray moles, vertebrae, tight corded muscles, learns the feel of his body by touch.

His mouth moves to the tops of her breasts. Stiles plants wet kisses over her chest, making her skin break out in chills. He doesn't even try to take the bra off, just closes his mouth around one nipple and sucks through the lace.

Lydia hisses in pleasure, reaches up with one hand to sink her fingers into his hair. "Yeah," she sighs appreciatively. "God, your _mouth_."

He hums in response, his weight still on his arms, hovering only inches above her. Lydia can feel the heat from his body, the ache in her pelvis from the lack of contact. He switches breasts, one of his hands lifting off the bed to splay across her stomach.

She pushes into his hand, feels his fingers spread and stroke, sending little flutters down to her core. Stiles smirks against her skin and drops his weight, gives her a thigh to grind against. He's teasing her she realizes, with a rush of unanticipated nerves, enough to make her shiver and moan, arching her back so their torsos press together.

She feels it when Stiles finds them, fingertips catching the scars on her stomach, jagged little triangles from Peter's teeth. He lifts his head from her chest and his eyes are luminous and wet. She stills under him, paralyzed by the way he's looking at her.

Like she's something holy, something he wants to give offering to. Something divine.

They've never talked about that night, not really.

"Lydia," he whispers. His other hand comes up to her head, brushes back her hair.

It hurts her sometimes, how tender he can be. It makes her feel raw and bloody, like she'll die from it, the exquisite pleasure of being loved by him.

"No." Lydia reaches up and cups his face with her hands. "He doesn't get to have this. This is ours. Not his."

Stiles shudders, his hand clenching in her hair. His eyes shut for a moment, like he's fighting something, or trying to forget. She knows where he is right now. On the lacrosse field, under the lights, screaming her name.

 _If you die I'll go out of my freaking mind_.

Lydia strokes his cheek with her thumb and waits for Stiles to work through it. To come back to her. When he opens his eyes they're full of shining warmth and sweetness, and just like that everything is good again.

His hand slides lower, down to her hip. Lydia exhales hard, there's a steady low pulse between her legs and her muscles feel electric taut. His thumb runs over the crease of her hip and she bucks helplessly, worked up enough to start feeling impatient.

Stiles licks around her navel. "Can I go down on you?"

She moans in relief, nodding desperately, lifting her hips for him so he can roll off her panties. He sits back on his knees, grasps her ankles and yanks her legs apart. Lydia gasps, reaching down to fist the sheets. The unexpected aggression is a nice surprise, it's painfully obvious that she likes her men powerful.

"Do you have any idea what you look like?" he says hoarsely. His hands run up the insides of her thighs, the muscles twitching under his touch.

Lydia feels drunk with lust, lets her head fall back against the pillow and watches Stiles with heavy eyes. He lies down on his stomach and gets his hands around her thighs, lifts her legs up to his shoulders. She lets her knees splay out, takes a deep breath against the tight feeling in her stomach, trying not to weep in anticipation of Stiles finally getting that mouth on her.

He turns his head to the side, sucks on the inside of her thigh. Lydia moans, flexing her feet, trying to hook him in closer. Then he bites, enough to send a shock of pleasure/pain up to her stomach and she cries out. Stiles laves his tongue over the bite, making shushing noise against her skin.

Finally, finally, she feels his fingers on her, spreading her open. She digs her heels into his back, vibrating with tension, whimpering _please, please, Stiles, please_ under her breath.

The first touch of his tongue on her makes her cry out, reaching down to grip one of the hands wrapped around her thigh. His tongue swipes up, flicks, swipes down and then up again. Lydia remembers that they're alone in the house and lets herself moan, her voice sliding up high as his tongue flicks rapidly, sending pulses of electric heat through her.

"Stiles," she slurs. She's halfway to coming already, the soles of her feet tingling with heat. It's spreading, rising up her body, her core clenching painfully.

He pulls off long enough to mutter, _I'm so doing this again after_ , and then he's back, tongue moving twice as fast as before. Lydia can't do anything but hold on, push her hips against him and curl her other hand in his hair. She's reaching the peak, everything narrowed down to hot white heat and she's chasing after it, feels it rush up her spine and she rolls her body along with it, back arching off the bed, head thrown back.

"Oh my god," she cries. She's helpless, legs shaking in his hands, and she's going to fly apart. "Yes, oh fuck, yes," and she falls over the edge, comes and comes until she's pushing him off her, shivering and sensitive but still desperate for more.

"Christ, Lydia," Stiles whispers, like he's awestruck.

"I want you so much," she moans, arms folded across her face like she's ashamed of her own lust, legs still spread open.

Stiles pushes off the bed, there's the telltale crinkle of a condom wrapper and the sound of Stiles kicking off his boxers. He climbs back up to the end of the bed, kneeling between her legs. Lydia gets up on her elbows, curls her hand around him and gives him a few hard strokes before rolling down the condom.

Stiles gets one hand around himself and lowers his body over hers, coming down on his left arm, palm flat next to her head. "You good?" he asks softly.

Lydia nods, the words caught in her throat. She's aching for him, needs him in a way she's never allowed herself to need before. She cants her hips up, watches Stiles' eyes widen, biting his lip in concentration as he looks down at them, lining himself up. She can feel him, right up against her, and all the breath leaves her lungs. Some sound breaks out of her, something wanton.

He pushes inside her and it's so sharp and sweet that she cries out in surprise, hands flying up to clutch his sides. He's only halfway in but she's already tense, muscles coiling, ready to spring

Stiles stills, staring down at her in awe, like he can't believe he's really here, inside of her. "Okay?" he asks gently. "Do you need a second?"

"No, no, it's good," she reassures him. "Keep going."

Stiles sinks in all the way, hissing, "shitfuckohfuckyes. Holy shit you're tight, you feel so good Lydia, Jesus Christ."

Lydia feels so full, slowly rolls her hips and gasps when he hits a spot inside that makes lightning fly up her spine. He goes slow, lets her grip his hips so she can roll against him, drifting in a steady rhythm. She's getting that really good zoned in feeling that comes from great sex, when everything else, all outer stimuli fades to the periphery.

All she's aware of is how close Stiles is to her, one of his hands cupped around the top of her head, the other sliding under the dip of her lower back. She curls her legs around his waist and cries out when he drives into her, her whole body curling up painfully tight.

Lydia writhes against him, she's going to come already and she can't even feel guilty about being this shameless, she wants to fuck him forever, wants to lose herself in Stiles, wants him to take her apart.

"Stiles," she groans. "Oh fuck, yeah, just, just like that."

"Yeah?" His voice is soft and teasing. "You like that?"

"Oh god." She hides her face in his chest, hands clutching at his ass, squeezing, keeping him close to her.

"You close?" His voice gets tight, breathing in time with his movements.

"Yeah," she whimpers, her cheek pressed against the hot skin, his heartbeat right against her ear. "Stiles." She doesn't recognize herself, this voice, this body, like every part of her was made for him and he knew it, saw it in her the first day she tossed her strawberry blond hair over her shoulder and walked right by him.

How could she have not known, that the hollow pit behind her sternum, that ache deep in her bones that no one, not Jackson, not Aiden, could ever fill, was just her body's way of making enough space for Stiles?

She opens her eyes and looks up at him. Stiles is staring down at her, lips parted and pupils blown. His whole body is shaking, like it's taking everything in him to stay in control. She rolls her hips desperately and Stiles groans in response.

"Fuck, Lydia." He's panting, reaches down to push her knees up above her hips, changing the angle to something deeper. "You feel so good, you don't even know, god I can't believe this is happening, can't believe I get this."

"Take it," she demands, her voice high and reedy. "Oh god, just fuck me, okay?"

Stiles snaps his hips and plunges into her, fucks her like he means it, until a low steady hoarse cry spills out of her mouth. He slams into her and Lydia comes with a sob, clinging tightly to him, her body dissolving in wave after wave of liquid heat. Stiles fucks her through it, kisses her and swallows her moans while she comes down and then he shudders, his eyes fluttering shut.

Lydia watches, fascinated, as Stiles tenses up, lips parting, a look of exquisite pleasure on his face. He drops his head to her chest and cries out once, into her shoulder, and he comes, his hands clutching her hips.

They breathe together, a perfectly synched inhale-exhale for a few moments before Stiles rolls off of her to trash the condom. Lydia stretches like a cat, warm and loose, her body a lean flowing thing against his sheets. He comes back to bed, a little unsteady as he curls over on his side and pulls her to him by hooking his leg around her ankle and slinging one arm around her waist, his face an inch away from hers.

"Love you," Stiles murmurs, and kisses her, once on her lips and again on the forehead.

She hums in agreement, languidly stroking the back of his neck. She's floating on a sea of endorphins, his hand a gentle grounding weight against her back. Lydia could fall asleep just like this like the night she told him she was in love with him, naked in his bed, his body a fortress, a suit of armor, a wall between her and the rest of the world.

Stiles traces patterns around her spine. "You okay?"

Lydia smiles. "Mm."

His fingers tease around the dip of her waist and he chuckles when she shudders reflexively at the contact. "I'll take that as a yes unless specifically stated otherwise."

She sighs and presses her cheek against the pillow. She feels a little raw, a little too open, like some final barrier between them has been unlocked.

Strangely self-conscious. Exposed.

"Hey," he says softly. "What is it?"

She leans forward and bumps her forehead lightly against his. "I'm just thinking."

His hand slides up to her breast, cups it in his hand, thumb rolling over the nipple. "About what?"

"You're kind of my best friend," she admits shyly.

"Scott's my best friend," Stiles says ruefully. "But..." His fingers pinch and her breath hitches. "You can be my super special friend. With super special benefits."

Lydia exhales and shuts her eyes. "Tell me you love me again."

He pulls her closer to him. "I'll tell you so many times you'll get sick of it."

"Not possible."

Stiles' other hand creeps down and slides between her legs. "You make me really happy."

She has to turn and press her face into the pillow, horrified when she feels tears rise to the surface.

"Whoa, Lydia, what happened? Hey, look at me." Stiles grips her by the shoulder to flip her onto her back. "What's wrong?"

She blinks and a fear tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. "You scare me," she admits.

Stiles' eyes darken. "What do you mean? Why?"

It's too intense, she tries to look away but he catches her chin in those long fingers and doesn't let her go. "You make me feel things."

His expression softens. "You make me feel things too."

Lydia exhales shakily. "I'm not good at feeling things."

Stiles kisses her gently and curls around her side, sliding one arm under her shoulders. "That's okay. I'll teach you."

She remembers the moment, in the woods with Stiles, one wrong breath away from losing a foot, adrenaline rushing through her body. And she didn't panic, because she was with Stiles, and Stiles Stilinski is the smartest boy she knows, even when he can't read.

She trusted him enough to jump and he caught her. He's always caught her.

She takes a deep breath and gives Stiles a brilliant smile. "Oh yeah?"

Stiles beams. "Yeah, you're pretty smart. You'll figure it out."

/

In the morning they meet up with most of the pack for brunch at the local diner. Lydia and Stiles are half an hour late and don't even notice because Stiles had the genius idea to shower together, which led to Lydia's genius idea of sinking to her knees and giving him _the best fucking blowjob in the history of blowjobs Jesus Christ Lydia._

Derek isn't there; according to Scott he was up all night patrolling (after refusing to let Scott and Malia come with him) and is currently crashing in Braeden's motel room. But Liam, Mason, and Hayden are all in line waiting for a table with Scott and Malia, jumping all over Scott and not so discreetly sniffing him, excitedly telling stories about the pixies they caught a few weeks ago.

Lydia's halfway through her garden omelette when she feels it, that familiar tingle, the hair rising on the back of her neck. She shifts in her seat, trying to look casual, and scans the diner - Beacon Hills is off school for Thanksgiving and every table is crammed full of teenagers.

Lydia's eyes connect with a girl sitting two tables behind them. Her skin is pale and her hair is long and dark, full lips painted red, a teenage Snow White in a black hoodie and black skinny jeans, a silver pentagram hanging around her neck. Her cheeks flush when she realizes she's been caught looking, the girl ducks her head and her hair falls in front of her face like a shield.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Lydia announces, and when Hayden doesn't take the hint Lydia kicks her ankle under the table.

"Hey, ou - oh, me too, I'll go with you." Hayden climbs over Liam's lap and gets out of the booth, rubbing her ankle and giving Lydia a pointed look.

The bathrooms are in an alcove in the back of the diner. Lydia pulls Hayden back so they're in the shadows and juts her chin towards the girl she caught looking at her. "Do you know her?"

Hayden shrugs. "Sure, that's Samara. She's a junior."

"Do you know anything about her?"

Hayden tilts her head thoughtfully. "Mason did a little research on her when Stiles called about the witches."

"Why her?"

The younger girl rolls her eyes. "Because she's a freak, duh. He wanted to make sure she wasn't a witch because of the whole pentagram, black clothes only thing. She's into Wicca, not that she talks to anyone about it but I broke into her locker last week during lunch and found a spell book."

Lydia gives her a sharp look. "Spell book?"

"Not a real one, it was mass produced. Mason thinks she bought it on Amazon. I took a few pics of the spells and he researched them, it didn't look like real magic."

Lydia bites her lip. "I suppose that's not too suspicious but I don't like the timing."It's only for a second but Lydia swears she sees Hayden's eyes flash gold. "We could wait for her to leave and grab her."

"We are not spending Thanksgiving break kidnapping someone," Lydia reprimands.

Hayden shrugs. "Have it your way."

After brunch they all split into groups: Scott and Liam go to the lacrosse field; Beacon Hills has a game tonight and Scott wants to check on Liam's control, which really just sounds like a thinly veiled excuse to shift and run around. Mason and Stiles check in with Braeden and Derek and then head off to the library to research in peace, leaving Lydia to take Malia and Hayden to the mall to kill time before the game.

Lydia takes the opportunity to talk to Malia while Hayden's trying on a dress for the winter formal at Macy's. Lydia's heart is pounding in her chest, shopping for a dress specifically was not her idea but when they drove to the mall Hayden immediately starting babbling about the dance.

It's like being trapped in a memory, like time has been looped, moments repeating themselves over and over again. Like when Hanna was killed something kick-started: Lydia screaming, being pulled back to Stiles and Scott, the hospital. Allison.

 _Smile, Lydia_.

"Hey," Lydia says casually, watching Malia run her fingers through some silk headbands hanging on a display. "Where are you living right now?"

"In a studio in the Mission District," Malia says, and narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"I was just thinking. I'm going back to school next semester but obviously I'm not living on campus again."

"Okay," Malia says slowly.

"There are some open apartments in Scott and Stiles' building, I was thinking about signing a lease."

Malia nods. "They'll like that."

"What about you?"

Malia shrugs. "Live where you want."

"No," Lydia says patiently. "What do you think about living there with me?"

Malia's hands drop down to her sides. "Live-with you?"

"Well I was thinking, you'd rather be close to us, wouldn't you? You're part of the pack. And that way we can keep an eye on you and make sure you're keeping up with school and everything. I can tutor you if you need it and Stiles can help you with stuff."

Malia's eyes widen hopefully. "Do you think Kira could come over sometime?"

"Sure, we can have girls nights or something. So are you in?"

Malia looks a little pensive but also secretly thrilled. "I just have to ask Derek I guess, but I don't see why he wouldn't be cool with that."

Lydia blinks. "Derek?"

"Yeah, he pays my rent. That was the deal, if I went to school he'd pay for rent and classes but I have to get at least C's. And I'm getting B's in all of them!" Malia says proudly. "Well, except for my math credit, but who cares about that?"

"Derek - Derek Hale is paying for you to go to school?"

"Well yeah, he is my cousin," Malia reminds her. "What else is he going to do with all that money?"

Lydia feels a little light-headed. "What?"

Malia absentmindedly picks up a pair of bright purple plastic wayfarers. "He got a ton of insurance money after the fire. The guy is loaded. And I think he feels sorry for me, but hey, if he wants to pay for stuff I'm so not going to tell him no."

"Hey, what do you think?" Hayden comes out of the dressing room in a strapless red body-con dress. "It's hot, right?"

"So hot," Malia enthuses.

It's only a split second flash - her satin dress drenched in her blood, streaks of dirt on the hem.

Lydia shakes away the memory and smiles. "Totally hot."

/

Being back at school is surreal. Scott and Stiles sit down on the bottom bleacher by the team so they can talk with everyone. Lydia sits up a few levels with Hayden and Malia. The other two girls are absorbed in the game but all Lydia can see are memories: Jackson and Danny executing play after stellar play. Scott McCall, a nobody one day and a total hotshot the next. Stiles scoring a goal.

Jackson's dead body on the field.

A group of teenage girls walk through their row of bleachers and Lydia and Hayden both stand up to let them through. One of them bumps into Lydia, she feels the girl's fingers brush her wrist to steady herself. The girl's head snaps up and it's Samara, the girl from the diner.

What little color is in her face pales, Samara looks terrified. "Sorry," she mutters, and shuffles down the row, her shoulders hunched, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her hair.

Hayden raises an eyebrow. "You sure you don't want me to talk to her?"

"What are you going to do, humiliate her for being clumsy?"

"I don't need your permission, you know," Hayden says offhandedly.

"I know," Lydia says calmly.

"Alright," Hayden replies, mollified, and sits back down.

They make it to the final period before Derek shows up, lurking past the opposite edge of the field near the woods. He blinks once and tilts his head slightly, a summons.

"Be right back," Lydia murmurs, and walks around the back of the bleachers and along the side of the field.

Derek's hunched in his leather jacket, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched. It still gives her a little shiver of - not fear exactly, but apprehension. She knows the power of that body, knows what he could do, to her, to anyone.

Lydia raises her chin. "Well?"

His eyes meet hers. "Something's happening."

She purses her lips. "Be more specific."

"Specifically, I feel something. Here." Derek touches the center of his chest. "It's the spell. They're doing something, it pulled me right here."

Lydia looks around wildly but she doesn't see anything out of the ordinary; the game is still in play, Scott and Stiles are watching with laser focus, Hayden and Malia are laughing at something, even Samara is sitting quietly with her friends.

Derek's nose twitches. "Come here."

Lydia takes a few steps closer to him and he grabs her arm, pulling her towards the tree line, farther away from the field. "I think it's coming from you."

"What?" Lydia tries to pull her arm away but she's no match for Derek Hale, he turns her so his body is between her and the field, hiding her.

"You smell different. Like magic." His eyes are roving over her, hand clenched around her upper arm.

"You're being ridiculous," she scoffs.

"Something's wrong," Derek insists. "You screamed for the first girl, you're connected to this, you know I'm right."

"I don't know what you're-" Lydia starts to say but then her left wrists turns to fire and the words die on her tongue.

Derek literally tears her jacket off and pushes up the sleeve of her sweater. Lydia stares down in horrified fascination. There's a black mark on the inside her wrist, the diameter of a marble maybe. Or a fingertip.

Samara, pretending to stumble, her finger pressing against her wrist.

Marking her.

She and Derek watch as concentric circles appear around the mark. Black vines snake up her forearm, roses bloom over the crook of her elbow.

"What's-what's happening?" Lydia gasps, and keels over into Derek.

He catches her so she lands on her knees, her weight against his chest, her arm held between his hands. Derek has gone white, staring down at her arm as the marks thread up her skin. Her field of vision goes dark, she can only see Derek's face, staring down at her like he's looking at a ghost, an apparition, a nightmare made flesh.

He peels off his jacket and his arms go around her, she can see feeble black lines run through his veins but it's not enough to stop the burn of the mark, the sudden clench of her heart.

"Lydia," he says sharply. "Just hang on, Braeden is close to them, she has to be."

"Derek," she gasps. "Derek-"

"Stay with me," he says tightly.

"I can't- I can't-"

"Lydia, just try to breathe, they're going to stop them-"

"They're killing me," she chokes out. She can feel it, something being sucked out of her from deep in her center, her raw throat, the skip of her heart.

"No," Derek hisses. "Not you too, not like this, dammit, just hold on Lydia, hold on."

She's crying, her body an inferno, being laid down on the cold grass, Derek's eyes a mysterious green sea in the darkness. Derek's phone rings, he lays it on the grass and Braeden's voice floats through the speakers but Lydia can't make out the words.

She thinks of Stiles then, his hands on her, his warm smile, tender voice. Stiles with a buzzed head and split lip telling her that she's not allowed to die.

"I'm sorry," she croaks.

Derek's hands are on her face and his lips are moving but all Lydia can hear is the wind.

"Tell him - sorry," she whispers.

Then she's gone.

/

The room is white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. Lydia's sitting on a bench and on the wall across from her is a clock but instead of a regular face it's a stopwatch, counting down three minutes.

"Well," Allison says wryly. "Better than nothing, I guess."

Lydia stares at her. "Where are we?"

Allison shifts next to her. "The waiting room."

"The what?"

Allison puts her arm around her. "Don't worry about it. You're not even supposed to be here."

"What are you doing here?"

Allison's smile is gentle. "I told you I like to visit."

Lydia curls her fingers around the other girl's, Allison's hands are too cold but she feels blessedly, solidly real. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Not quite," Allison says cryptically.

"Allison-"

"It's okay," Allison says, and loops her arms around Lydia to pull her into a hug. "Everything's going to be okay."

"What's happening?"

Allison tilts her head and closes her eyes, like she's listening to something. The timer is ticking down, two minutes, one and a half minutes.

"Okay," Allison whispers. "It's okay now."

"Allison?"

"Close your eyes," Allison whispers. Her eyes are filled with tears.

"No," Lydia fights. "No, please, just talk to me."

Allison kisses her cheek. "I talk to you all the time, even when you don't hear it. It's almost time."

Lydia takes a second to memorize her face: those big brown eyes, delicate bones, dimples. "Time for what?"

"Time to go," Allison says calmly.

"Where are we going?"

"Not me," Allison says.

"No, Allison-"

"It's okay." Allison's voice is firm. "He's waiting for you."

"I love you," Lydia says desperately.

"I'm like the wind. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there," Allison murmurs. "I love you too, c'mon, close your eyes."

Lydia lays her cheek on Allison's shoulder and complies, eyes shut tightly, and listens to the wind.

When she opens her eyes again she's flat on her back in the grass and Derek is looming over her, lips an inch away from hers, hands folded over her chest.

"Lydia?" he breathes.

She inhales, sucking in air like it's her first breath of life.

"You died." Derek looks stunned. "You were dead."

She takes in their position, her head tilted back, his hands on her. "You did CPR?"

"For three minutes." His head cocks to the side. "Get up, we have to get back to the others."

"Derek?" He curls his hands around her wrists, which are mark free, and heaves her up to her feet.

"Stiles," he says tightly.

They walk back towards the field with his arm around her waist and when they get closer Lydia sees them: the game is over and there's Stiles, on the other end of the field, being held back by Liam and Scott, screaming hysterically, _Lydia, Lydia, Lydia!_

"Stiles," she cries softly, and yanks out of Derek's grasp. "Stiles!"

She starts to run, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Stiles!"

His head snaps up, the hands holding him back let go and Stiles tears across the field towards her, screaming. "Lydia! Lydia!"

"Stiles!"

She's flying, kicking up grass and mud because she has to run, _Lydia, run!_

They meet in the middle of the lacrosse field, Lydia launches into his arms and Stiles picks her up, sobbing, her legs wrapping around his waist.

"Lydia, Lydia." Tears are streaming down his face, he's holding her so tightly she knows she'll never fall, not like this.

"It's okay, Stiles, it's okay," she gasps.

"You died," he cries. "I felt it, I felt you, Lydia."

"I'm here," she says fiercely, her face pressed into his neck. "It's okay, I'm here, I'm right here."

"What happened?" He sobs. "Oh god, Lydia."

"Stiles, Stiles, it's okay. I'm here."

Lydia kisses the side of his neck and swipes her thumbs underneath his eyes to wipe his tears. "Shh," she croons, her legs still dangling in the air.

"I told you," Stiles gasps. He's hyperventilating, halfway to a panic attack. "I told you-"

"I know," she murmurs. Over his shoulder she can see Derek talking to Scott and Liam. Hayden and Malia are standing next to the bleachers with Samara, who's crying loudly and gesturing with her hands. "I'm right here."

/

"Samara's parents died a few years ago, she lives with her aunt now," Hayden starts, leaning against the dresser in Braeden's motel room. "Her older brother is part of the - what are we calling them? Witches? Anyway, when he came back to town this week he told her he needed her help with something."

Lydia curls up tighter next to Stiles on the edge of the bed. "To find someone supernatural."

"He told her it was for her parents," Malia says bitterly. "He told her that the spell was going to bring them back."

Stiles rubs his eyes. "Well you can't say that's not an incentive."

"She really didn't know what she was doing," Hayden says, sounding sympathetic. "She thought it would generate some banshee juju or something, she freaked out when she thought she killed you."

"Are they dead?" Scott asks Braeden. "The witches?"

Braeden's mouth twists. "Their leader is. We gave the followers a choice: leave now and never practice magic again or stay and lose their hearts."

"So it's over," Stiles says faintly. "It's really over."

"Looks that way," Derek affirms. His eyes flick over Lydia, like he can't believe she's really sitting alive on the bed.

"In that case," Hayden says. "I'm gonna go home and crash, I still have a midterm paper on the Salem witch trials to write before Monday.

Stiles laughs. "Seriously?"

Liam takes Hayden's hand and grins. "It's Beacon Hills. You can't make this stuff up dude."

The four of them, Malia, Stiles, Scott, and Lydia all hug them goodbye and stand there a little awkwardly with Braeden and Derek.

"So," Derek finally says. "I know I'm not your Alpha but if you guys ever - if you ever-"

"We'll call you," Scott says, and holds his hand out to shake on it. "Thanks for your help, dude."

The tips of Derek's ears turn red. "Just want you to be safe," he mutters.

"Aw, look at you," Stiles coos. "You totally love us, man."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek snaps.

"Well then, if we're done here I say let's get the hell out of Dodge before something else comes for our heads," Lydia says. She steps forward and carefully wraps her arms around Derek. "Thank you."

He looks down at her, he seems surprised at her gratitude. "Um. Okay."

"Oh my god, just say you're welcome." Stiles rolls his eyes. "It was totally unasked for but we appreciate, you know, not letting Lydia bite it before Braeden could stop the spell."

"But I didn't save her," Derek argues. "You did."

Stiles stares blankly at him. "What are you taking about?"

"Your tether," Derek explains. "It - forged a connection, between your souls. I could feel it, when I was doing CPR. It brought her back, not me."

"It was Stiles," Scott says, looking at her, mouth open in awe. "He pulled you back."

"Whoa." Stiles looks like he might pass out. "Point one for anchoring."

"Come on." Scott lays a hand over Stiles' shoulder. "If we leave now we can still get back to school before Marcos' closes."

"Pizza." Stiles sighs happily. "We have definitely earned pizza."

They all hug goodbye and walk back to the parking lot together, Malia skipping ahead with Scott, Stiles' hand clutching Lydia's like he's afraid she's going to disappear. She runs her thumb against the back of his hand, turns one last time to look at her town, her crucible, her living nightmare.

She survived. Again. Up in the dark sky a half-moon is glowing, unperturbed by magic and sacrifice and wolves howling under it.

Lydia shivers and steps closer to Stiles, squeezes his hand.

"Okay?" he asks softly.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "But I think

I will be. We'll be okay."

Stiles smiles. "I think so too."

"Yeah?"

He points ahead where Scott and Malia are playing a game, seeing who can jump higher over curb dividers. "Yeah. We have each other."

Lydia smiles, turns her head to give him a kiss. "Lets keep it that way."

"Absolutely," he agrees. "Strength in numbers."

"And us," she says softly. "Anchors."

They walk under the light of the moon back to their friends, the wind whipping lightly around their shoulders, and when they leave, it's together.


End file.
